


The Art of Being Dead

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Basically this is my fun Halloween fic this year, Horror, M/M, Modern AU, Not even the weirdest thing to happen on a subway tbh, Vampires, Vampires in the metro folks, halloween fic, starting it now so I can post the final chapter ON Halloween
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: Enjolras encounters an unusual stranger on the metro one night - what follows the encounter is stranger still.-My Halloween fic for 2019!...which is about to be finished for Halloween 2020. Oops.





	1. Chapter 1

He'd missed his stop.

Enjolras had never missed his stop. At least, not in years, not since he'd first come to Paris. He knew the metro like the back of his hand – better, in fact, since he rode the metro a lot more often than he bothered to stare at his own hands.

But tonight – he'd missed his stop.

It wasn't his fault, he told himself. No, the culprit was university, piling on the workload, and Courfeyrac, too, for keeping him talking far longer than he'd intended. They'd spent the evening in Courfeyrac's apartment, going over plans for the protest next week, and before they even realised it midnight had crept up on them both. Enjolras had kissed each of his friend's cheeks and then set of for the metro at Les Halles, catching the Southbound train to Luxembourg. He'd made the journey a thousand times before without incident, but tonight it seemed that weeks of running off less than four hours sleep a night had finally caught up with him. 

When he'd opened his eyes the train had been pulling out of Port-Royal, and Enjolras had experienced that stomach-lurching sensation that only came with realising you'd missed your stop or left the stove on. He'd checked his phone; 12:20. The metro closed at 12:40.

When the train had stopped next at Denfert Rochereau Enjolras had alighted the carriage in such a rush he'd nearly tripped, crossing over to the opposite platform in the desperate hope of catching the last Northbound train back up to Luxembourg. He did not enjoy the thought of having to pay for a taxi, or, God forbid, navigate the night bus.

But luck was on his side, apparently – the last train was due in five minutes.

Enjolras had always hated the metro late at night. It was what Jehan would have called a 'liminal space', somewhere that felt only half real, like being in a school after hours, or walking the corridors of a hospital just before dawn. There was something undeniably creepy about places that usually buzzed with activity being suddenly empty. A ghost town. That was what it felt like, Enjolras thought, standing alone on the platform as he waited for his train to arrive. The bright lights above him flickered periodically, as though dancing along to the electric hum of the tracks. Even the cool breeze that rushed up from the tunnel and displaced his hair smelled artificial. A horrible, dead place.

Except no, actually - he wasn't alone.

Enjolras was not sure why it had taken him so long to notice the other passenger waiting with him at the far end of the platform. They would have had to pass by him to get where they were standing, so must have been there before he arrived – but he couldn't recall seeing them as he'd entered the platform. Ordinarily when Enjolras used the pronoun 'them', it was because he was not in the habit of making assumptions about people's gender – in this instance, though, the pronoun was draped in more mystery than usual. The stranger was so obscure in shape and size and form that Enjolras could not have guessed their gender even if he'd tried. Or their age. Or...anything, really. They were wearing smart clothes – he assumed – and dark shoes - he assumed. He only assumed all of this because he could not actually be sure. There was something alarmingly vague about the person's entire being, and they seemed distorted, shifting under the glaring halogen lights. There was no reason he should not be able to see them clearly – his eyesight was perfectly fine, and the platform brightly lit. Enjolras suddenly found himself feeling as though he might be alone at the platform afterall. 

He pushed it aside and tried to think of something else, glancing at his phone in search of a distraction from his strange companion. A message from Combeferre, asking him where he was.

_I'm on my way back now_, he typed, tapping his foot anxiously. _I missed my stop._

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure move. The person stepped dangerously close to the edge of the platform, so close that Enjolras' immediate instinct was to stop what he was doing and look up in alarm. They were perched right on the edge, toes hanging over the precipice. All they would have to do is lean forwards slightly and they would go headfirst onto the tracks. The tracks, which were live, Enjolras remembered, hearing them buzz. Even if they were lucky enough to avoid them, a train would be along any minute now. There had been a recent spate of suicides on the metro - it seemed to have become a macabre trend. 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras called, the words leaving him almost involuntarily. The person did not move, did not even turn their head in his direction. No answer. That was probably a cue to mind his own business, Enjolras thought, but if the stranger threw themselves in front of the train and Enjolras had done absolutely nothing to try and prevent it he would never forgive himself. And, a little selfishly, he imagined it would also impede him getting back to Luxembourg. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket, certain that he was going to regret this, and stepped towards them.

“Excuse me – are you alright?” he asked again. Still, the person did not move. Were they ignoring him? Enjolras could hear a distant whistle from the end of the tunnel closest to them, the far off sound of a train approaching. Without even thinking he reached out to touch the stranger. They turned to look at him, and Enjolras immediately wished they hadn't.

He saw no face.

They were standing a foot in front of him, beneath the lights, and yet he _saw no face, _as though a dark fog shrouded their features. They were there, somewhere - Enjolras could feel eyes boring into him - but he could not see them. He felt his voice leave him and his feet take root. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. Suddenly they were surging forwards, and the world turned black. The whistling in the tunnel grew louder and louder, screaming in his ears, screaming, _screaming_\---and then a gust of hot air was sweeping over him as the train screeched into the station.

The light returned. Enjolras gasped, and found himself alone.

For a moment he simply stood there, trembling, trying to make sense of what had happened. The stranger was gone. How? It was the doors of the train opening with a mechanical hiss on his right that brought Enjolras careening back to reality. He let out a shaky breath and turned to board the train, crashing down into the nearest seat. His legs were weak, as though they could barely carry his weight. 

He felt sick. He felt dizzy. He felt like he'd been drinking. _Had_ he been drinking? He didn't think so. He'd been at Courfeyrac's apartment all night – hadn't he? Maybe he was wrong. Suddenly the whole evening was starting to slip from his mind. He searched his memory, grasping at details to no avail. Maybe they'd met at a bar? Courfeyrac liked to drink fancy cocktails. Maybe Enjolras _had _been drinking, though it was rare – or maybe he'd been drugged?

What stop, exactly, was he getting off at?

-

Enjolras didn't have the slightest clue how he'd gotten home – but he had. At some point he had obviously alighted the train at Luxembourg and made the ten minute walk to the apartment he and Combeferre shared together. He had absolutely no recollection of this, but he had evidence enough in the form of waking up in his own bed. His head was spinning, his throat was parched. Yes - clearly he had been drinking afterall. That explained a lot, like missing his stop and a stranger without a face. He rolled over, pawing at his bedside table in search of his phone, and shot Courfeyrac one simple message: _how much did I drink last night?_

The effort of sending the text was far more than he'd anticipated. He groaned, collapsing back onto his pillow as he waited for a reply. Part of him didn't even want to know. It must have been a lot, to leave him in such a humiliating state. He closed his eyes, seeing the blood vessels behind his eyelids.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras sighed, lifting his head at the sound of Combeferre's voice. It sent the whole room tipping to one side. “What?” he asked.

“It's past noon,” Combeferre said from behind the door. “Are you okay?”

“I'm dying,” Enjolras deadpanned, closing his eyes and laying his head back down. “I feel rotten.”

He heard the door creak open. “What's wrong?” Combeferre asked. “Are you sick?”

“Ask your boyfriend, he did this to me,” Enjolras muttered.

“Courfeyrac?”

“Do you have another boyfriend I don't know about?”

Combeferre didn't comment. He didn't need to – Enjolras could practically feel his disapproval from across the room. “What's wrong with you, then?”

“I have a hangover.”

“A hangover?”

Enjolras felt the mattress dip as Combeferre sat down on the edge of the bed, and cracked open one eye to see his friend staring at him. “You heard me,” he said feebly. “Go on – laugh. Get it out of your system. This is exactly why I don't drink.”

“But – you didn't drink,” Combeferre said, sounding baffled. “Well, not with Courfeyrac. Unless he's not telling me something.”

Enjolras frowned. No – he was wrong. He _had_ been drinking - of course he had. He couldn't remember it, sure, but it was the only explanation for his surreal journey home the night before.

“You and Courfeyrac were at his apartment. All you had to drink was coffee,” Combeferre told him, bringing the back of his hand to Enjolras' forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I am?”

“Yeah---a _lot_, actually. I'll get a thermometer. You're running a really high fever...”

Well, maybe that explained it, then. Not drunk – just sick. Fever dreams and faceless figures sounded like something that would go hand in hand.

“What time did I get home?” he asked.

“Not until late. I was worried about you,” Combeferre scolded. “You didn't answer any of my messages. I was thinking about calling the police when you finally stumbled in.”

“What time?”

“Around four, I think?”

“Four?!” Enjolras sat bolt upright. Again the room lurched violently, as though the whole world had been shaken off its axis. “Four---no. I got on the train at 12:30. I'm sure of it.”

“Well you obviously went somewhere else before you came home,” Combeferre said. He pursed his lips. “You should have called.”

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said. “I would have, I think. I wasn't feeling great.” _No shit_, he thought. _Four_. That didn't make any sense. He'd lost three and a half hours between boarding a train and getting home. Three and a half hours. Anything could have happened.

Combeferre sighed. “Try and get some rest,” he said. “I'll go get you some paracetamol. Drink plenty of water, okay?”

“That won't be hard,” Enjolras muttered, shivering a little. “I'm dying of thirst.”


	2. Chapter 2

Someone was screaming. Enjolras did not know who – it was not a voice he was familiar with. In fact, the longer he listened, the more he started to wonder if it was a person at all. He thought of the metro, of the faceless stranger, and the high pitched screech of an approaching train. Darkness raged around him, pitch-black staggered between sudden flashes of red. Still, the screaming continued, climbing in pitch, like the whistle of a kettle on a stove. Higher, higher, louder, until Enjolras grit his teeth against it, sure his eardrums were about to explode.

He shot up in bed, drawing in a breath big enough to fill his whole lungs.

“Woah, Enjolras! Are you okay?”

Enjolras turned his head to see Courfeyrac, eyes wide as saucers, sitting next to his bed on his phone. A dream, he realised. Only a dream.

“I---yeah. I think so. Sorry, did I scare you?” he asked.

“A bit,” Courfeyrac said. “You were dead to the world a few seconds ago.”

“I had a nightmare,” Enjolras explained.

“Well, yeah – you've been super feverish all day,” Courfeyrac informed him, raising one eyebrow. “Like, really bad. Your temperature got so high Combeferre said if it went any higher you'd have to go to A&E.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He was freaking out a bit, not gonna lie. He thinks you have some kind of viral infection or something...” Courfeyrac squinted at him curiously. “How do you feel now? You look better.”

“I feel better,” Enjolras said. And he did – much better. In fact, better than better. Well-rested for the first time in years. How long had he been asleep? And how strong was that paracetamol? Had Combeferre knocked him out with horse tranquilizers or something?

Courfeyrac reached forwards to touch his forehead. “You're not hot at all anymore. I mean – you're hot, don't worry,” he joked. “But your temperature has gone down! Combeferre, come in here!” he shouted. “You can stop hyperventilating! Enjolras is all better now!”

Combeferre scoffed as he entered the room, cleaning the lenses of his glasses on his shirt. “I doubt he's 'all better' that quickly, but I'm glad to hear---oh,” he stopped short, blinking at Enjolras in surprise as he placed his glasses back on his face. “Wow. You _do_ look better.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Enjolras deadpanned, rubbing his temple. “How long was I out?”

“Most of the day,” Combeferre said, leaning close to inspect him. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“I mean symptoms, Enjolras. Do you have a headache? Feel dizzy?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras reported. He swallowed. “Oh – my throat hurts a bit, actually. But not much.”

“Hm. That's odd,” Combeferre said. “You really just woke up like this? Courfeyrac, if you make a Beyoncé joke I _will_ exile you from the room.”

Courfeyrac visibly deflated, mouth open as though he had been about to do exactly that. Sometimes it was spooky how well those two understood each other.

“Yes,” Enjolras said flatly. “'I woke up like this'...” Courfeyrac snorted out a barely contained laugh through his nose. “...Why is that so strange?”

“It's just – I would have thought the virus would last longer than it has,” Combeferre explained, still examining him thoughtfully from every angle. “They're usually at least a twenty-four-hour type of deal...”

“Maybe I just have a strong constitution?”

“Or super healing powers, like Wolverine,” Courfeyrac chipped in. Enjolras smirked.

“I suppose,” Combeferre sighed. “Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? You're well again, that's what's important.”

“I guess so.”

“Are you going to be well enough to come to the meeting?” Courfeyrac asked. Enjolras shot him a pointed look.

“Do you think I'd miss it even if I wasn't?” he said.

“Fair point,” Courfeyrac laughed. “Just don't get the rest of us sick, okay? We can't all bounce back like a demigod.”

“I'll do my best.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes, crossing the room to open the curtains. “Come on then, get up.”

Enjolras swung his legs out of bed and---shrank back with a string of curse words as Combeferre threw open the curtains. The light from the setting sun was brighter than he'd ever seen it, stinging his eyes and making his whole body hot, as though his fever had come rushing back over him.

“Close the curtains!” he cried, shielding his face with his arm.

“What? Enjolras---”

“CLOSE THE CURTAINS!”

Combeferre did as requested, looking completely baffled.

“Oh, mood,” Courfeyrac said, busy on his phone. “I hate the sun too when I've just woken up.”

“_Fuck_,” Enjolras hissed, blinking furiously. He could see spots behind his eyes. “It's too bright. I've been in the dark all day, you could have warned me!”

“I'm sorry,” Combeferre said. “I didn't think...”

“It's fine, it's---seriously, it's fine,” Enjolras said, shaking his head as his vision returned to normal. The fire beneath his skin seemed to dissipate, fading away until it was little more than an itch, like the last effects of a nasty sunburn. “Just leave me to get dressed, okay? I'll be out in a few minutes.”

-

It was dark by the time they left for the Musain. A good thing, really – Enjolras didn't think his poor eyes could take a second assault. Still, besides this, he felt great – full of energy. Perhaps spending the whole day practically comatose was what he'd needed? He couldn't even remember the last time he felt this good. Well, besides the slight scratch in his throat, anyway.

He was still feeling good when they reached the Musain, finding that the rest of the group was already there.

“You're late!” Joly called. “The triumvirate – late! Unheard of!”

“Sorry,” Combeferre said. “Enjolras was feeling sick earlier – it's taken a while for us to drag him out of bed.”

“Sick?” Joly turned white. “He's okay, right?”

“Fine now,” Enjolras promised.

“It's been hell not having you guys here,” Bahorel piped up from his seat, visibly playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Without leadership we were descending into chaos. It's been some Lord of the Flies type shit. We contemplated eating Bossuet.”

“I told them they wouldn't like me,” Bossuet said. “I'm too chewy.”

“It's been like watching the fall of ancient Rome in real-time,” Jehan remarked, without glancing up from the paper coaster they were doodling on.

“Haha,” Enjolras said, crossing the room to take his usual place.

“Well, no need to worry,” Courfeyrac said, grinning from ear to ear. “We're here now, so we can get started! Who wants to read the minutes from last week? Anyone?”

His words were met with unenthusiastic mumbling. “Oh come on – someone! Grantaire?”

“Don't fucking look at me,” Grantaire said, sinking down into his chair as though trying to disappear through the floor.

“Eponine?”

“Same answer, but with less feeling.”

“_Anyone_?”

“I'll do it, I guess,” Bossuet offered. “But you all better remember this next time you vote to cannibalise me.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, digging the notebook out of his bag and sliding it across the table towards him.

Bossuet fumbled to find the date, flipping through the pages. “Fuck!” he said, drawing his hand back suddenly. “Don't know why I bothered offering. The universe _hates _me,” he complained, sucking on his finger – a paper-cut, Enjolras realised, watching the blood run down Bossuet's pointer finger onto the page.

A paper-cut. Just a paper-cut.

Then why could Enjolras suddenly feel his heart in his chest? Frantic palpitations that he could feel all over his body. Was he having a heart attack? His ears popped, and the same high-pitched ringing from his nightmare returned, drowning out everything around him. It felt like standing in the middle of a subway tunnel, waiting for the train to hit him. Enjolras saw people's mouths moving as they spoke, but no sound accompanied it. He curled his hands into fists at his side, the scratching in his throat growing fierce, unbearable. The strangest, sweetest smell had filled the air, tantalizing, rendering him suddenly painfully aware that he hadn't eaten all day. And then the world descended into darkness.

-

When Enjolras blinked awake he did not recognise his surroundings. He was laying flat on his back in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an equally unfamiliar ceiling. He frowned, trying to recall how he'd gotten there, searching his memory and finding nothing but a dark, empty space. He'd been in the Musain, he was sure of it, heading the meeting with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Bossuet had been reading the minutes from last week, he'd cut himself – and then Enjolras' recollection grew hazy.

He sat up, looking around. This was definitely not his room. Nor was it Combeferre or Courfeyrac's. It was messy, clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor, and a gym bag resting on an old chair by the window. Bahorel's, maybe? There was a dry, brown fern sitting in a pot on the windowsill, looking long dead or near enough, and all sorts of strange things pinned to the wall – postcards of art, ticket stubs, sheet music. Jehan's room, perhaps? No – absolutely not. Jehan would have kept that plant in immaculate condition. The bedsheets and pillowcases were all mismatched, as though their owner had started changing them and given up a dozen different times. Books piled up wherever space could be spared for them. And there was a stack of canvases, Enjolras noticed, stuffed into the small space between the desk and the wall. It was this, and the sudden whiff of familiar cologne, that solved the riddle: Grantaire. He was in Grantaire's room.

...What was he doing in Grantaire's room?

Enjolras rose from the bed, heading for the door – and finding it locked. He scowled, shaking the handle. It didn't budge.

Okay – so he was _locked _in Grantaire's bedroom. Nothing unusual or concerning about that, he thought dryly. And then he heard it – muffled voices through the door. He leaned closer, straining his ears, and recognised Courfeyrac;

“I don't---I don't know what to do. Maybe he was joking?”

“Joking?!” Bossuet, voice about five octaves higher than usual. “Fucking_ joking?!_ You didn't see the look in his eyes, Courf!”

“Or his teeth,” Joly put in. “That's not – those aren't – I know I'm not a dentist but I know normal teeth when I see them and that was some horror movie bullshit.”

Enjolras furrowed his brow. What were they talking about?

“He tried to kill me,” Bossuet said. Enjolras bristled. Who? What had happened? Had someone come into the Musain after he'd blacked out?

“I know,” Combeferre, trying to sound calm – failing at it. “I know. I have no idea what happened. Or how he got so strong...”

“Yeah, testosterone doesn't do _that_,” Feuilly said. “At least, it wasn't in the side-effects list _I_ was given.”

“Maybe we should just ask him when he wakes up?” Grantaire.

“Ask him?” Bossuet again. “R, he tried to _eat_ me!” Enjolras heard Marius let out a little whimper.

“I was only joking when we said that,” Bahorel said quietly. “Didn't expect him to take it seriously.”

“Look – what happened was weird, no one is denying that,” Courfeyrac. “But Enjolras is our friend. We can't just keep him locked up.”

_Enjolras? _

They were talking about _him_? He'd – what had he done? His blood ran cold.

“I---hello?” he called. “Guys?”

A beat of silence.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre cleared his throat awkwardly – or nervously. “You're awake, then?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “What happened? I don't remember...”

“You don't?”

“No.”

“That's probably a good thing.” Another pause. “You attacked Bossuet.”

Enjolras' heart dropped like a stone. “Attacked?” he whispered. “I don't – I didn't ---”

“You threw yourself across the table at him like a wild animal,” Joly said, voice trembling. “Your teeth were all fucked up, and your eyes were black – it was fucking weird, man. Are you doing drugs or something?”

“Of course not!” Enjolras said, thinking it slightly bizarre that he was so insulted by the suggestion after what he'd supposedly just done. “I don't even drink! Why am I in Grantaire's room?”

“I live closest to the Musain,” Grantaire said. He sounded just as shaken up as the rest of them. “Bahorel knocked you out after you – well, yeah. We brought you here. Sorry. I know it's a mess.”

That was his primary concern? Really?

“Bahorel knocked me out?”

“Sorry chief,” Bahorel said. “But you were off the rails. It took four of us to pull you off Laigle."

Enjolras stepped away from the door, heart racing. What had he done? How could he not remember doing it? “I'm sorry, Bossuet. Whatever I did, I promise I didn't mean it.”

“It's fine,” Bossuet said, surprisingly forgiving. “We're gonna – we'll figure this out, yeah? Jehan ran home to get something, but they said they'll be back soon.”

If Jehan was being put in charge of this situation, it had to have been weird, Enjolras thought. He swallowed hard; his throat was still parched, aching as though someone had raked their nails down it. “I'm sorry,” he said again, sinking to the floor. He felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

“I'm so sorry..."


	3. Chapter 3

So Enjolras had attacked Bossuet. He'd attacked Bossuet, and now he was locked in Grantaire's bedroom, and Grantaire was - freaking out a little. Okay, that was an understatement. What was the appropriate reaction to your crush launching themselves across a table at one of your best friends, fangs bared? Because that's what those things in his mouth were – fangs. No one was saying that. Everyone was skirting around the word, probably because it sounded fucking crazy, and no one wanted to be the one to point it out. But they were definitely fangs, sharp and gleaming white.

Enjolras had attacked Bossuet, and now he was locked in Grantaire's bedroom. Grantaire could hear him sobbing quietly from inside the room.

“He's so upset,” Courfeyrac whispered. He'd been pacing back and forth so long Grantaire thought he was going to wear down the carpet. He'd be billing him, in that case, lest his landlord prove more deadly than Enjolras. “I have to go to him,” Courfeyrac said, reaching for the doorknob – Combeferre stopped him, gripping his arm tightly. 

“Courf – no.”

“But he's our friend, and he's crying,” Courfeyrac protested. “We can't just leave him in there to face whatever this is alone!”

“He tried to kill Bossuet,” Combeferre said. He sounded admirably calm, Grantaire thought, but his eyes betrayed that he was feeling just as conflicted as his boyfriend. “It might not be safe to open that door.”

“Then what? We just keep in him there forever?” Courfeyrac challenged. “Hey, Grantaire – I hope your landlord is okay with pets, because that seems to be how we're treating Enjolras from now on!”

Combeferre winced. “I just mean we need to find out more about what's wrong with him before we go taking any risks.”

Courfeyrac hesitated. More weeping from behind the door. It felt like a knife in Grantaire's chest. He'd never heard Enjolras cry before, and hearing it now Grantaire realised that some ridiculous part of him had thought he just...didn't. Marble wasn't supposed to shed tears. 

“Enjolras, it's okay,” Courfeyrac said, kneeling down beside the door to talk to him. “We're right out here for you, Enj. We're not going anywhere...”

“What's wrong with me?” Enjolras asked, voice muffled. 

“We don't know,” Combeferre said. “But we're going to find out and make it better. We promise.”

Grantaire thought it was pretty ballsy to promise such a thing, but for once he kept his cynicism to himself – the last thing he wanted to do was upset Enjolras any further. He glanced at Joly and Bossuet, sitting beside him with Musichetta.

“Are you alright?” he asked. A stupid question, really.

“I'm alive, I guess,” Bossuet said. His hands were still shaking, even with Musichetta stroking his head affectionately as if he had any hair worth stroking. “It was – well – his _eyes_...”

Grantaire didn't need reminding. He'd had front row seats from where he'd been sitting. It had all happened in such a blur that even now he was having difficulty parsing it all. One moment Enjolras had been standing at the front of the room, ready to start the meeting – the next he'd been halfway over Bossuet's table, lips pulled back over his teeth like a snarling dog and his eyes black, burning like hot coals. It reminded him, almost preposterously, of when someone waves a feather toy in front of a cat, and their pupils grow so large they seem to take up all the space in their eyes. Only rather than a feather toy, it had been Bossuet's bleeding finger. And rather than a cat, it had been – whatever Enjolras was.

Because he wasn't Enjolras as they knew him – not anymore. That much was pretty clear.

“If Jehan doesn't get here in another ten minutes I'm going in there,” Courfeyrac decided, running his hand over the wood of the door as if he thought it would offer Enjolras some comfort. “I can't sit out here and listen to my best friend cry his eyes out over something he has no memory of doing. He's obviously – sick. Or something.”

“Sick is a bit of a understatement don't you think?” Eponine said, from where she was leaning out of the window with a cigarette. “My brother had the flu last week, but he didn't try and rip my throat out.”

“Yeah, this isn't sickness,” Cosette agreed. “This is something else.”

“Well I don't care,” Courfeyrac said. “Enjolras would never hurt me – I know it. Like I said; ten minutes and I'm going in.”

“I really would advise against that,”

Jehan's voice made Grantaire jump. He turned to see them toeing off their shoes in the doorway, hair windswept and frizzy. They were cradling a veritable library of books in their arms, a pile stacked all the way to their chin. “Enjolras isn't himself right now.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Bahorel said.

Jehan ignored the comment, crossing the room and dumping the books unceremoniously onto the coffee table. “Okay, so – I had a look through some of my supernatural collection---”

“Some of?” Eponine quipped.

“---And I think you're all going to hate every word I have to say.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre asked, frowning.

“Look, let's just cut through the bullshit, shall we? Enjolras has fangs,” Jehan said. Grantaire was unsurprised that Jehan was the one to break the silence around it. Combeferre expelled a deep breath. Joly swallowed so loudly that Grantaire heard it.

“Yeah, it's weird, I know,” Jehan said, sinking down on the sofa and starting to paw through their books. “But it's true. You all saw that. He has fangs. He was much stronger than he should be. It all started because Bossuet was bleeding---”

“Oh shit, I know exactly where this is going,” Bahorel muttered.

“Not to get all 'Twilight' on you,” Jehan said. “But I think Enjolras is a vampire.”

A tense pause followed the word. For a while everyone just left it hanging there, reluctant to give it any weight at all. Because that was absurd - and yet.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Feuilly said, arms crossed over his chest. “That's not – they don't exist. They're just stories.”

“Stories sometimes come from truth,” Jehan reasoned, deadly serious. “How else would you explain this?”

Feuilly didn't answer – he couldn't. Instead he turned to Combeferre, almost pleading. “Tell them that's not possible, 'Ferre. You're a doctor – you – you know this isn't possible.”

Combeferre slipped off his glasses, fiddling nervously with them. “Something...strange happened to him, last night,” he said. Grantaire sat up in his seat.

“Strange?”

“He didn't get in until just after four,” Combeferre said. “He sent me a message at around 12:25, saying he was catching the last train home. He sent me that, and then he didn't get in until after four. He had absolutely no memory of what happened between that message and getting home.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac said, looking as though something was only just dawning on him. “He freaked out when we opened the curtains, 'Ferre – the sun---”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Bossuet whimpered. “Trust my luck to be attacked by a fucking vampire!”

“Hey – that's Enjolras,” Courfeyrac argued, puffing up. “He's still Enjolras! I know it.”

Grantaire didn't know what to do. What to think, even. He closed his eyes, trying to push out the sound of Enjolras bawling behind the door. These were _so_ not the circumstances under which Grantaire would have liked to have had Enjolras in his bedroom.

“Wait---” he said, opening his eyes again. “Fuck. If he doesn't remember where he was between twelve-thirty and four – and he attacked Boss'---you don't think...?”

Marius squeaked. Cosette wrapped one arm around him.

“Oh, god...”

Jehan's lips pursed. “That's not good,” they said. “But – not hopeless. This isn't hopeless, okay?”

“_How _isn't it?” Feuilly said. “He's a---a---you know!” he seemed reluctant to use the word, as if doing so would give it even more power than it already had. Grantaire could understand his hesitance. He didn't even want to _imagine_ the word in the same sentence as 'Enjolras'. Enjolras, who radiated goodness and humanity, a murderous, blood-sucking creature of the night? He couldn't imagine anyone less suited to the job description of a---of a vampire.

“But we don't know the full extent of the situation yet,” Jehan said. “This is going to sound a bit weird, but – how many of you have watched 'The Lost Boys'?” a few tentative hands went into the air, Grantaire's among them. “Okay, so then you're familiar with the concept of a half-vampire, right? That is – someone isn't a full vampire until they make their first kill.”

“But he was missing in action for hours last night,” Musichetta reminded them, still petting Bossuet's head. “He could have---” she stopped, aware that Enjolras was probably listening to every word they were saying. “Well.”

“We don't know that,” Jehan said. “We need to do some tests.”

“What kind of tests?” Combeferre asked. In any other circumstances Grantaire would have found it funny that Combeferre perked up at the slightest whiff of science.

“Well – I'm assuming he didn't burst immediately into flames when you opened the curtains?”

“No, shockingly, he didn't. I don't think he'd have made it to the meeting if he had.”

“So that's a good sign. Providing what Hollywood tells us about vampires is accurate. Which, you know – pinch of salt,” Jehan tapped their fingers thoughtfully against the table. “Do you have any garlic, R?”

“I'm French and I like food,” Grantaire said flatly. “What do you think?”

“Okay – we can try him with that, then. And someone should go and get some holy water.”

“Wait, wait---” Courfeyrac stood, rubbing his temples. “Are you all losing your minds? We can't just experiment on Enjolras like a lab rat! What if one of these things kills him?”

“We'll do it in very small doses,” Jehan promised. “But it might help us establish whether he's a full blown vampire or – if something can be done.”

“And what _can_ be done, if he's a – half-vampire, or whatever?” Eponine asked, flicking the ash from her cigarette down into the street below.

“Well – it's like the movie. You kill the head vampire and all the half-vampires turn human again.”

More silence.

“Fuck, this is batshit,” Bossuet said.

“Don't you think that's a bad choice of word?” Joly replied.

-

Frankly, this would have been hilarious if Enjolras wasn't currently an unholy minion of darkness, or whatever. Grantaire didn't think he'd ever seen anything quite like it: most of Les Amis crowded into his laughably tiny Paris apartment bathroom, whilst Bahorel – with sofa cushions duct-taped all over his body for 'protection' – prepared to open the door for Courfeyrac, who was shaking like a leaf despite his earlier conviction that Enjolras 'would never hurt him'. It seemed airing out the idea that Enjolras was a literal vampire had rocked that belief just a bit.

“What do I – what do I do if he _does_ attack me?” he asked. “Not that he will. Like – I know he won't, of course...”

“Run for the bathroom,” Bahorel said. “R armed Chetta with a fire extinguisher, that might put him off.”

“Fuck.”

“Someone get their phone out to film it,” Jehan put in from somewhere in the bathroom. There was barely space to breathe, Grantaire had no idea how they were expecting Courfeyrac to take cover in there if it came down to it. Poor Combeferre had been relegated to standing in the shower cubicle, being the tallest of them.

“What, you think this could go viral?” Joly said.

“Wha---no! If he's a vampire he won't show up on the camera, will he? It's another way to test my theory---”

“Okay, if you could all just shut the fuck up so I don't shit myself, that would be great,” Courfeyrac shouted. “Please. Oh god – this is – fuck. Combeferre, I love you. Eponine, if I die, you can have my Harry Styles ticket, okay?”

“I'm good thanks.”

Courfeyrac ignored the remark, steeling himself as though to ride off into battle. Grantaire – who had remained in the kitchenette, not entirely that attached to life and limb – watched him suck in a deep breath and say; “Okay – open the door.”

Bahorel turned the lock. There was a click, a creak, and the door swung open to reveal – Enjolras, sitting on the floor, wailing like a baby. Not quite the scene of terror they'd been bracing themselves for. Courfeyrac seemed to forget all his fear in an instant. He ran forward, falling to his knees and pulling Enjolras into his arms.

Enjolras burst into even more tears. “I'm a monster!” he said. “What---what if I---oh god, Courfeyrac. I might be a murderer!”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes, holding him close. “It's okay,” he said. “It's okay, Enj. Don't worry. We're not going anywhere. We'll – we'll fix this.”

Grantaire stared, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut by the sight of Enjolras so undone.

“We'll fix this,” Courfeyrac repeated, over and over.

God, Grantaire thought – he hoped they could.


	4. Chapter 4

Once it became clear that Enjolras wasn't the imminent threat they'd prepared for, Grantaire watched their friends slowly file out of the bathroom one by one, gathering in the bedroom doorway. It was still a little weird, he thought, having so many of them crowded into his apartment. He didn't tend to invite more than two people at a time here – in part because it was far, far too small for the price of the rent, and in part because...well, the 'black dog' wasn't exactly a good housekeeper.

No one seemed to know what to say. Enjolras sobbed into Courfeyrac's arms, and everyone looked just a little guilty for having kept him locked in the bedroom for so long.

It was Jehan who finally dared step closer and break the silence.

“Enjolras,” they said softly. “Do you have any idea how this could have happened? Do you remember...anything?”

“The stranger,” Enjolras whispered, finally lifting his head from Courfeyrac's shoulder. “On the metro...”

“Stranger?”

“I – I thought I was alone on the platform, and then suddenly I wasn't. This other person was there, I – well, I thought they were a person. They had no face.”

“No face?” Bossuet sounded like he was going to faint, Grantaire thought.

“Well, sort of. They had a face, I think,” Enjolras furrowed his brow as though straining to recall it. “But it was – hidden, is the only word I can think of. By a black fog.”

“This stranger,” Jehan pressed. “Did they say anything to you?”

Enjolras shook his head, wiping the tears from his cheeks with one hand. “I'm an idiot,” he said, voice stuffy from crying. “I thought they were going to jump. They were standing really close to the edge of the platform, and with the recent suicides on the metro, I thought – well. I should have just minded my own business, shouldn't I?”

Grantaire was inclined to agree with that assessment, but as much as he tried, found that he couldn't. Not really, not with any real conviction. Because trying to help someone he thought on the brink of suicide was such an Enjolras thing to do. Of course he'd approached the terrifying faceless stranger to ask if they needed assistance. Of fucking _course_. Grantaire had always known Enjolras' caring heart would be his downfall in the end, but for all his cynical remarks about it, part of him had desperately longed to be proven wrong. Sometimes being right absolutely sucked – no pun intended.

Everyone else seemed to be thinking something similar, going off the looks passing between them. Grantaire turned his attention back to the coffee he was making – or trying to make. His hands were too shaky to cooperate fully.

“You approached them, then?” Jehan asked.

“Yes.”

_Of course you did,_ Grantaire thought again.

“And then what happened?”

“I don't really know,” Enjolras said. “They leaned towards me and everything went black. I don't remember much of what followed. I stumbled onto the train, but that – that's where my memory goes fuzzy. The next thing I know I'm waking up in my bed with Combeferre telling me I've lost three and half hours of my life.”

A pause, a fleeting apology from Jehan, and Grantaire looked up to see them reaching forwards to tug the collar of Enjolras' t-shirt aside. Even from the kitchenette he saw them – two red marks, spaced about an inch or so apart, sitting at the juncture between Enjolras' neck and shoulder. Admittedly, they didn't scream 'vampire'. It would have been easy to mistake them for two pretty nasty bug bites, in Grantaire's opinion.

Enjolras seemed more surprised than Jehan by the discovery. He brought his hand up to touch them, fingertips trembling. “I didn't notice,” he said, voice small. “I didn't even feel it. How could I not have felt it?”

“Let's not worry about that right now,” Courfeyrac soothed, stroking his hair.

_Yeah, let's not worry about it! _Grantaire thought. _Let's all just go on with our lives pretending Enjolras isn't a vampire, and just vow to never ever accidentally get hurt ever again. See how long that lasts._ He gave Bossuet a week, tops, before he'd be becoming brunch. He didn't say any of this, of course.

“Do we have a plan of action, then?” Combeferre said eventually.

“Not quite,” Jehan admitted. “Like I said – we need to find out the extent of the situation before we do anything. Someone should go and check the news – see if anyone in the area was attacked last night.”

“Oh god,” Enjolras said, hiding his face against Courfeyrac's shoulder again. Grantaire's heart ached to see him so distressed. Remarkable, really, how Enjolras had managed to become simultaneously the most vulnerable and most dangerous person in the room.

“It's okay,” Courfeyrac said again, the only one of the group who didn't seem scared. An interesting development, Grantaire thought. Courfeyrac cowered under the blankets during horror movies, and had once screamed so loudly at the sight of a spider that his neighbours had thought he was being murdered and called the police. But vampires? Nothing, apparently, when they took the form of his best friend.

“I'll find out about any attacks,” Feuilly offered, already reaching for his coat. “I'll take a walk around and see if I can find anything out. I know a lot of the homeless people around here, I can ask if they've seen anything weird.”

“I'll go with you,” Bahorel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Probably best not to be out there alone with Dracula on the loose, hey?”

“He's right,” Joly said, shuddering. “Vampires at Les Halles! Who'd have thought it?”

“It wasn't Les Halles,” Enjolras piped up. “I fell asleep on the Southbound train and missed my stop. I woke up as we were pulling out of Port-Royal, and got the Northbound back from Denfert Rochereau.”

“Denfert Rochereau?” Jehan seemed to perk up with interest. “That's curious..."

Combeferre cleared his throat loudly. “Sure is – anyway, you mentioned something about tests, Jehan...?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jehan waved their previous thought away, turning to Enjolras. “Do we have your permission to experiment on you a bit?”

“Experiment?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “How, exactly?”

“They're going to make you eat garlic,” Grantaire said, unable to stand silently in the kitchen any longer. “And I guess spritz you with holy water or something.”

Enjolras' eyes grew wide. He looked to Jehan, who shrugged sheepishly. “He's about right, to be honest,” they said.

Enjolras swallowed hard, evidently fighting to quash any doubts he had – and he definitely had them, from the look on his face. “Oh,” he said. “That's – okay. Sure.” It was admirable how hard he tried to school his features back into their usual look of cool composure. “Why do you want to do them, exactly? Something about...half-vampires?”

“Yes. We need to know if you're a full vampire or a half-vampire.”

“That's definitely a thing?”

“I mean, I don't actually know,” Jehan confessed. “But there does seem to be a lot of consensus in different vampire stories that someone isn't a true vampire until they make their first kill.”

Enjolras looked away. He seemed suddenly very small. “But for all we know I already have,” he muttered.

“And if you have, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Ah, if you can. There's some sources that say vampires can't cross running water, which is kinda rough in Paris, with the Seine – but, well. Metaphorically, we will.”

“If I have,” Enjolras started, still averting his gaze. “If I've killed someone – if I'm a full...” he didn't say the word. “You realise what that means, right?”

“What?”

“Well, you'll have to kill me, obviously.”

Absolute silence followed the statement. Feuilly, who had opened the door to leave, stopped in his tracks. Grantaire set down the coffee jug so loudly that everyone turned to look at him.

“No,” he said, voice catching on the word. “No. Definitely not.”

“You'll have to,” Enjolras insisted, now surprisingly calm. “I'm dangerous. I don't want to hurt anyone else.”

“Look, we'll – like I said, we'll cross this bridge when we come to it - _if_ we come to it,” Jehan said quickly, looking just as freaked out as everyone else by the prospect of – what, exactly? Driving a stake through Enjolras' heart? They'd all have to line up and fight Grantaire in that case. And Courfeyrac, he reckoned. “If you're a half-vampire, we can fix it.”

“By killing the head vampire,” Courfeyrac put in helpfully.

“And how do you expect to do that?” Enjolras said. “I don't even know what it looks like. I never saw a face, remember?”

“No, but – well, you know it was near Denfert Rochereau. That's a start,” Jehan said. “And I have a few theories.”

“Well right now we need to do these tests,” Combeferre decided. “Grantaire, find the garlic. Feuilly, Bahorel – head off and do your thing. Search nearby - he got on the train, so he must have disembarked at Luxembourg.”

-

Four AM found Grantaire roasting garlic in his tiny kitchen oven, staring at his phone as he waited for the timer to go off and googling 'half-vampires' like some kind of weirdo. Most of it was totally irrelevant to their situation – stuff about vampires and humans getting it on and making unholy babies, vampires seducing women with their scary sexy vampire powers, that sort of thing. Grantaire had never personally met Enjolras' parents, but he was pretty sure neither of them was a vampire – and that at least one member of Les Amis would have noticed Enjolras' unusual thirst for blood before now if they were. 

The high-pitched 'ding' of the timer made Grantaire startle so suddenly he nearly threw his phone across the room. He set it down on the sideboard instead, opening the oven door and scrunching up his nose. The whole apartment building was going to smell of garlic by morning, he was sure of it. His neighbours would be sending complaints, and any excuse he tried to offer about vampires would be taken for sarcasm, even though, for once, it wasn't.

Okay, so roasting it was_ technically_ unnecessary, but as someone who enjoyed good food the thought of making poor Enjolras stomach raw garlic was monstrous, even discounting the possible side-effects of melting or bursting into flames or however else vampires died. Besides, Grantaire reasoned, there was no way they'd be able to tell he was a vampire if they did that – after all, who happily chowed down on raw garlic? Enjolras spitting it out wouldn't tell them anything except that he had working taste-buds.

“R?”

He jumped at the sound of Musichetta's voice, looking up from the baking tray. She was staring at him, so sympathetic and pitying that he felt sick. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Grantaire blinked. “Your boyfriend nearly got his jugular ripped out,” he said. “And you're asking _me_ if I'm okay?”

Musichetta smiled wryly. “Seems weird, I admit,” she said. “But I just figured I'd check up on you...” she lowered her voice then, glancing at Enjolras, now sitting on the sofa between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “I know he means a lot to you.”

Grantaire grimaced. He'd have rather stuck his head in the oven than had this conversation now. “It's fine,” he said. “Don't worry about me. Worry about him.”

Musichetta frowned her disapproval. “R,” she said, reaching to take his hand. “It's okay, you know? With the way you feel for him – it's alright to be scared.”

“Please, Chetta,” Grantaire said. “I'm trying not to think about that right now. This situation is fucked up enough as it is without me injecting my issues into it. I'm okay, honestly.”

Musichetta didn't seem convinced. Grantaire couldn't blame her, he was a terrible liar where his feelings for Enjolras were concerned. But she was merciful, apparently, and agreed not to inflict any further suffering upon him. “Fine,” she said. “But if you need to talk to us, you know where to find us.”

“Yeah – in my tiny shit apartment, because that seems to be where everyone is camping out now.”

“R, is that garlic ready?” Joly asked.

“Oh – yeah. Sorry.” Grantaire quickly plated the garlic up, grabbed a knife and fork, and headed over to the sofa. This was a bad idea – he was sure of it. What if Enjolras _was_ a full vampire? What if he had some kind of horrible reaction to it, and dropped dead right there in Grantaire's apartment? That would be murder, surely? It would be murder, and Grantaire would be complicit – and heartbroken. “So, uh...here,” he said, holding the plate out to Enjolras. He reached out to take it, and hesitated. Was he scared, Grantaire wondered? He thought that was to be expected, but the look in Enjolras' eyes was hard to place. He stared at Grantaire for a long moment, nostrils flaring. Grantaire felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac said, nudging him slightly. Enjolras snapped out of whatever trance was holding his attention.

“Oh – yeah. Sorry. Thanks,” he said, accepting the plate. He set it on his lap and stared at it for a while. “Should I just – go for it?”

“A small piece,” Jehan warned. “Just nibble it, okay?”

Enjolras nodded, picking up the fork and skewering a single clove. Grantaire wanted to turn away, wanted to close his eyes, just in case – but he figured that would only frighten Enjolras more. Instead he forced himself to watch as Enjolras brought it to his mouth and---

“Shit!” he hissed, dropping the fork. Grantaire froze.

“Oh, god – we've killed him!” Bossuet cried.

“No!” Enjolras said. “No, it's just hot, that's all. It's just come out of the oven.” An audible sigh of relief from almost everyone in the apartment. He tried again, taking a cautious bite. Nothing happened.

“Well?” Courfeyrac dared, practically vibrating in his seat.

“It's just garlic,” Enjolras shrugged. “It's kind of nice, actually.”

“Well that's a good sign,” Jehan deduced. “But then, we don't know if garlic actually does anything to vampires or if that's just Hollywood. We're going in blind, really.”

“What else do you suggest?” Combeferre asked.

“Get me a mirror – let's see if his reflection is funky.”

-

It was, as Jehan put it, 'funky'. Pale and almost transparent, like someone had lowered the opacity on him using Photoshop. Not a great sign, Grantaire thought, though it had apparently given Jehan some hope. Frankly that was the least of Grantaire's concerns right now; he couldn't stop thinking about the way Enjolras had looked at him when he'd handed him the plate – piercing, straight into his soul. He felt like he'd missed something important in that look, something deeply significant.

It was almost five when Feuilly and Bahorel turned back up at the apartment, their arrival rousing Marius and Cosette, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, and causing Eponine to drop her probably hundredth cigarette of the night out of the window.

“We've got some good news and some bad news,” Feuilly announced, shrugging off his coat.

“The good news?” Courfeyrac asked.

“None of the people in the area saw or heard anyone get attacked or anything like that,” Feuilly said. “And we've been checking the local news – nothing about anyone getting attacked in Luxembourg.”

“That _is_ good,” Courfeyrac agreed. “But the bad news?”

“The bad news is no one saw Enjolras, either,” Bahorel said. “So whilst he hasn't gone to town on anyone in Luxembourg, that doesn't mean he wasn't somewhere else in Paris.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac said. Grantaire saw the little light of hope in his eyes snuffed out like a candle. “Still – at least he hasn't killed anyone that we know of. That's good, isn't it?” he turned to Enjolras. The man in question was drifting off to sleep against Combeferre's shoulder.

“It's almost dawn,” Jehan pointed out. “He needs to sleep.”

“I'll go make the bedroom a bit more presentable in a minute,” Grantaire said.

He'd never been more pleased to have invested in blackout blinds, purchased originally with his drinking habits in mind. If they were good enough for a whiskey hangover, they were good enough for a hot vampire, he supposed.

“I'm pretty sure we can still save this,” Jehan said. “His reflection is still there, even if it's faint. Garlic didn't do anything to him. The sun bothered him, but didn't make him – explode, I guess. And so far no bodies. I think he's a half-vampire – I think we can turn this around.”

“What do you suggest?” Combeferre asked.

“We have to find this faceless stranger – and kill it.”

“That's fucking crazy,” Eponine said, coughing slightly. “It took four of us to drag him off Bossuet – if he's only a half-vampire, imagine what a full one will be like. You want us to just go all Buffy on that shit?”

“We'll research, we'll plan,” Jehan protested. “It's the only way to save him. In the meanwhile – R, he's going to have to stay here.”

“That's fine,” Grantaire said. “Is there anything I should do? Not do?”

“You only have one job, okay?”

“Which is?”

“Don't let him kill anyone.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some technically non-consensual kissing on both sides here...

When Enjolras woke, something was wrong. He wasn't sure what, exactly. Hell, there was a long, long list of things that were wrong with this whole situation, but as he rolled over in his bed – in _Grantaire's_ bed, he amended – he was struck with the distinct feeling that something was even_ more_ wrong.

He sat up, every fibre of his being on edge. It was still light outside, but not for long - he could see the dull orange glow of sunset peeking into the room around the edges of the blackout blinds. A quick glance at his phone confirmed the time; it would be nightfall soon. Was that the cause of this sudden energy, he wondered? He felt like he'd just chugged five energy drinks in quick succession - his hands felt like they were trembling, but were completely steady. His heart was beating furiously in his chest, and his throat – god, the scratching in his throat had returned tenfold.

Without giving the action any thought he swung his legs out of bed and stood. There was a sweet smell in the air, mingling with Grantaire's cologne. Enjolras couldn't place it – it was indescribable. But it was his favourite smell in the whole world. He knew that by instinct. He closed his eyes, opening his mouth slightly to drink it in, to savour it. What was it? Was Grantaire cooking something? He and Eponine were the only ones left in the apartment with Enjolras now, unless the others had arrived whilst he was asleep. They'd all gone off in separate directions, some to rest, some to research. He crossed the room to the door, where the smell was stronger still. He reached for the doorknob - locked. Of course. In his quest for the source of the scent he had almost forgotten the reason he was in Grantaire's room in the first place. As the smell grew stronger, something changed – Enjolras didn't know what. He was moving without control, almost an out of body experience, like watching himself from afar. He scratched at the door like a cat wanting to go outside.

“Grantaire...?” he called. The voice that left him was not his own. It sounded like his, but not – silky in a way Enjolras couldn't recall ever speaking to Grantaire before. He'd have remembered that. “Grantaire...?”

A pause.

“Enjolras?”

“Open the door,” Enjolras asked softly. The words left without his permission – he couldn't stop them. In his head he was screaming: _No. Don't open the door. Something is wrong. _“Please,” he added.

Another pause.

“I don't know if that's a good idea,” Grantaire said. “Jehan told me to keep the door locked until they get back. Just in case. I'm sorry – I know it's shitty.”

Internally, Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. Grantaire was many things – many frustrating, wonderful, annoying things – but he wasn't stupid. Externally, however, the strange voice drifted from Enjolras again:

“Please open the door. This is all so frightening. I don't want to be alone...”

_Don't listen_, Enjolras thought. He could hear that sound again, that distant whistling. And the smell – the smell was stronger than ever. “Let me out.”

_No. Don't._ He heard the lock turn – a terrible sound. The door creaked open, Grantaire's face appearing before him. Enjolras could see Eponine asleep on the sofa.

“Do you need something?” Grantaire asked. A gust of evening air blew in from the open window in the living room, cutting through the gap in the door. That _smell_. It was him – Grantaire. He smelled incredible.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, in the voice that was both his and not his. “You.”

Grantaire did a visible double take. “Uh---I'm sorry, what?”

“I need _you_,” Enjolras murmured. He brought one hand up to touch Grantaire's cheek, fingers tracing over coarse stubble. Grantaire's eyes widened. _You're in danger,_ Enjolras wanted to yell. He wanted to scream it, to push him out of the room, to tell him to lock the door and flee the apartment. But the warning wouldn't come – something else was piloting his body.

“I don't---I don't understand, Enjolras---”

“Kiss me,” Enjolras breathed. He met Grantaire's eyes with his own, watching as the confusion seemed to melt away from Grantaire's face. His eyes glazed over, as though under some kind of spell. “_Kiss me_,” Enjolras said again, purring the words out. His voice could not have sounded human at this point – but Grantaire...something was wrong with him. “_Kiss me..._”

Grantaire complied. Enjolras felt himself smile against his lips.

_Run for your life._

He backed up into the bedroom, free hand coming up to seize the front of Grantaire's shirt and pull him with more strength than he could ever remember having before into the room. Grantaire was powerless, dazed, stumbling helplessly along. They reached the bed, Enjolras dragging him down on top of him and kissing him deeply, fiercely – hungrily. Grantaire let out a little moan of pleasure – even internally, Enjolras thought it was the loveliest sound he'd ever heard.

“I want you,” Enjolras' voice whispered against his ear. He described it only as his voice because that's what it was – almost disembodied, as if something else was speaking through him. It certainly wasn't Enjolras saying these things – not that he _didn't_ want him, of course. Just...not like this. He felt Grantaire shiver through his whole body – and then recoil abruptly with an audible wince.

“You bit me,” he said, tonguing the small cut on his lip. “Your teeth---”

“Don't mind it,” Enjolras' voice hummed. “I can make you forget about it...” he kissed him again to silence him, tasting bliss on his tongue.

_I am going to kill you,_ Enjolras wanted to say. _I am going to kill you if you don't run, you wonderful, stupid man. _The whistling, which was still there, began to grow louder. He was back on the metro, feeling the electricity from the lines surging through his veins as Grantaire went willingly to his own demise. This was a nightmare. And yet – Enjolras couldn't deny it was a sweet one.

Enjolras broke away first, licking Grantaire's bloody lip. As he stared up into Grantaire's eyes he saw only a haze of desire. The man was in a complete trance.

_Please run_, Enjolras thought again, as he began to kiss his jaw, working his way slowly down to his neck. _Please run..._

He felt his own mouth open wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw to devour its prey. He felt Grantaire's pulse racing, felt the soft skin of his throat. The smell was overwhelming, delicious, enough to make his conscience take flight. The screeching drowned out everything – everything but one thought: _Run, please. Please. Run, run, ru----_

“OH FUCKING _HELL_ NO!”

Enjolras felt the pain before he heard the noise. Something slammed into the side of his head, cold and hard, and he sprang off the bed, sending Grantaire reeling backwards onto the floor.

Eponine, swinging a fire-extinguisher like a bat. “Get the _fuck_ off him!”

Enjolras stumbled away into the corner of the room in retreat – despite this, Eponine pulled the tab on the fire-extinguisher and aimed it at him anyway, spraying him from head to toe with foam. Through all this he saw Grantaire stagger to his feet, lip still bleeding, looking like he'd just woken up.

“Wha---what?!”

“R, you absolute _fuckwit!_” Eponine snarled. She grabbed him by the arm, backing away towards the door as though she still expected Enjolras to pounce. Enjolras could've kissed her out of gratitude if he hadn't been so sure he'd get another smack across the head for doing so.

“I'm sorry!” he said. “I don't know what happened!”

“Just stay the fuck away,” Eponine said. “I like you as much as the next one of our friends but if you lay a finger on him I will stake you in a heartbeat, got it?”

Enjolras sucked in a short breath. “Maybe you should,” he said.

“_What?_”

“Before they get back – the others,” Enjolras said. “I don't – I don't want to be this thing. I don't want to hurt anyone.” _Let alone Grantaire_, he thought. Eponine's fearsome expression fell away instantly. She looked terrified – all talk, no action, it seemed.

“I---no. I couldn't just do that. That's fucked up.”

“It's what I want.”

“But our friends - they'd all be so upset.”

“Please,” Enjolras begged. “I'm scared I'm going to kill someone I care about. It's surely easier to kill me now, whilst I'm still only half...this thing. You said it yourself – who knows what a full vampire will be like.”

“Don't listen to him, 'Ep,” Grantaire mumbled, wiping the blood from his mouth. “Don't. Jehan will fix this. If you kill him, I'll never forgi---”

“I know, Monsieur Dick-for-brains,” Eponine said, ushering him towards the door. She glanced at Enjolras one more time as she followed. Fleetingly, she looked almost apologetic; a rare expression on Eponine. “Sorry, Blondie,” she said. “You're out of luck. Maybe ask Courfeyrac to do it.”

With that she was gone, shouting at Grantaire again as she went; “I can't believe you nearly let your cock get you killed!”

-

It was an hour later when he heard the rest of the group get back. There was a great deal of yelling and arguing coming from the living room, probably the group trying to decide what to do about him. He hoped they were taking a vote on it, whatever it was – seemed only right they do this in the true spirit of Les Amis. Sometimes staking your vampire friend through the heart was a democratic decision.

He sat on the floor in the corner for what felt like a small eternity – a bad choice of words, he thought, considering his circumstances – and then finally, just after ten, Jehan poked their head into the room.

“Enjolras?”

“I suppose you heard about what happened with Grantaire.”

Jehan hesitated. “Yeah,” they said. “I did. It's okay – you're not yourself right now. Grantaire doesn't blame you for it.”

“He should. I nearly killed him,” Enjolras closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Have you decided what to do with me, then?”

“What? No – it wasn't – that's not what was going on,” Jehan assured him. They really were intrepid, Enjolras thought, watching them dare to come closer and kneel down beside him. He could hear muttering on the other side of the door – likely the rest of their friends, waiting to burst in and save the day if necessary.

“Then what?”

“We're making plans to find the head vampire. We're going to start at the cemeteries.”

“You still want to try that, then?”

“Of course we do,” Jehan said. “You're our friend, Enjolras. And you're suffering. You have, like, the strongest moral compass of anyone I know – this must be hell for you.”

“It is,” Enjolras agreed. “But more than that I just don't want to hurt anyone. Promise me, Jehan – I want a three strike rule. If anything like this happens again...” he lowered his voice, not wanting the others to overhear. “I want you to put an end to it. Please.”

Jehan's hazel eyes clouded with doubt. “Enjolras...”

“_Please_.”

Jehan paused. They grimaced, running one hand through their hair. “Fine,” they said at last. “Deal.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I'm updating this old thing again. Determined to finish it, as I have it all planned out.

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“Completely sure?”

“Yes.”

“One-hundred thousand million percent absolutely definitely sure?”

“_Yes,”_ Grantaire sighed, pushing Joly's hand away. “I promise you, I'm not currently experiencing the overwhelming urge to kill _anyone_. Though that might change if you don't stop flashing that torch into my eyes.”

Joly fixed him with a disapproving look – the kind of look Grantaire imagined he usually reserved for anti-vaxxers and people who thought essential oils could cure their haemorrhoids. “Don't joke around, R. This could have been serious.”

“_Could _have been?!” Eponine cried, still pacing back and forth. She'd been wringing her hands nervously for what seemed like an hour now. “Fuck me, _could_ have been? It _was_ serious! You didn't see what I did – your dear leader was less than a second away from sinking his teeth into him and draining him like a Capri-Sun!”

“I don't mean that – I mean the bite itself,” Joly said. “Fortunately it doesn't look like he's experiencing any of the same symptoms as Enjolras. I guess it wasn't enough of a bite to change him. More of a graze, I suppose...”

“A close call,” Jehan said – though they didn't seem entirely convinced. They had been dead silent since they'd left the bedroom. _Dead_ silent – _ha_. In any other situation Grantaire might have laughed at the pun, or at the very least shared it out loud.

“_Too_ close,” Eponine said, whirling angrily on Grantaire again. “I can't believe you nearly _died_ for the chance to fuck Enjolras!”

“I can,” Bahorel said.

Bossuet nodded. “Me too.”

Joly raised a hand. “Same.”

_Fucking traitors_, Grantaire thought. “It wasn't like that,” he said, certain that no one was going to believe him. “Really. It was – I can't describe it. I felt like I was in a dream.”

Bahorel laughed roughly. “We don't need to know about your nocturnal emissions, R!”

“_Not_ what I meant! It was – I felt like I was in a trance.”

“That makes sense,” Jehan said. “I mean, from what I've read. You probably were in some kind of trance-like state. I'd expect vampires have some kind of alluring powers, you know, to make hunting easier.”

“See?” Grantaire crossed his arms indignantly. “It's not my fault. He'd have got any of you guys just the same.”

Eponine snorted. “Not fucking likely.”

“I mean, I'm sure you're right to some extent, but let's be honest, R - you were an especially easy mark,” Bossuet said.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Bahorel agreed wistfully.

“Okay, can we stop talking about this?” Grantaire asked, wishing he could sink through the sofa and disappear. Enjolras killing him was starting to feel like the preferable option. “What if he has super sensitive hearing or some shit and hears all this?”

“I don't think he does,” Jehan said. “But fine – we have more important things to do now, anyway. I put together a kit when I went back to my place.” They turned around to retrieve the suspicious looking bag they'd dropped at the door when they arrived, too preoccupied at the time with Grantaire's near-bite-experience to provide any explanation for it.

They heaved it up onto the coffee table, the contents clunking loudly. Probably not a good sign, Grantaire thought.

“A kit for what, exactly?” Feuilly asked, raising one eyebrow.

Jehan didn't answer; they reached into the bag and began to pull things out one at a time like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. A small glass bottle filled with water – the holy kind, perhaps? A bible. A few cloves of garlic.

“Didn't we already establish that garlic doesn't work?” Combeferre asked, fiddling with his glasses.

“On half-vampires,” Jehan pointed out. “We don't know anything for sure yet. Worth having, though,” they said, pulling the next item out of the bag – a large wooden mallet, and---

“Holy_ fuck_, is that a stake?!” Bahorel shouted.

Grantaire's heart did such a horrible somersault that he thought it was about to leap up out of his throat. “If you think you're using that on Enjolras I promise it's going up your ass instead---”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Jehan said. “It's to kill the head vampire, of course.”

“Where did you even get this stuff?” Joly asked, baffled. “I mean, you can't just nip into the grocery store and pick up bread, milk and...holy water?”

“I have one of those novelty vampire hunting kits from the early twentieth-century,” Jehan said, as though that explained everything. It sort of did, Grantaire thought. It was a very Jehan answer.

“Great.” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. “But we have a problem – we still don't know where the head vampire is. We can't just go wandering around Paris at night armed with stakes and crucifixes and hope for the best.”

“Don't worry, I've thought about that, too,” Jehan said. “Tomorrow we start our search in Père-Lachaise. We look in daylight for any cracks in tombs, open graves, anything suspicious. And if we don't find anything, we go to Montmartre. Then Montparnasse. A process of elimination. Graveyards are the perfect place for vampires to hide out in the day, and some of the mausoleums there are pretty big.”

“Are you thinking of owls? Because it sounds like you're thinking of owls,” Joly said.

“Or bats,” Bossuet added. “Oh! I get it. Bats, right.”

“Exactly.” Jehan smiled thinly, and though they sounded optimistic Grantaire couldn't help but feel there was something they weren't saying.

“Are we just going to leave Enjolras here by himself?” Combeferre asked, scowling.

“That's not a good idea,” Bossuet put in. “What if he escapes and goes on a killing spree or something?”

“Yeah, someone needs to stay here with him,” Joly said.

“Someone who won't fall for his seductive vampire powers...” Bahorel added. “Sorry, R.” And then; “Oh, hey, Eponine - you're a lesbian, right?”

Eponine groaned.

-

“Well?”

“Nothing,” Joly reported, crashing down onto the nearest bench with his cane. “And my leg is starting to play merry hell with me. If anyone expects me to keep this up they're gonna be volunteering to carry me on their back like Yoda.”

“No luck at all?” Jehan asked, crestfallen.

Combeferre shook his head, cleaning his glasses on the front of his shirt. “We didn't find anything that looked like it was open or cracked that was big enough for anything to hide inside,” he said. “What about you guys?”

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac confirmed. “We did three laps near the gates with a group of old ladies watching us the whole time. I think people are starting to think we're here to dig up Jim Morrison or something.”

“So what now, then?” Feuilly asked, hugging his arms nervously. “It's almost six. They'll be closing soon.”

“We'll go back to R's,” Jehan decided. “Tomorrow we go to Montmartre.”

“Are we just going to do this for every cemetery in Paris?” Grantaire asked. “Because my feet can't take this, and I don't think it's going to work.”

“We have to cover all our bases,” Jehan said – and again, there was something else, something unspoken.

Bahorel snorted. “And when we run out of graveyards to snoop around? What then?”

“Well then I have some other ideas. But let's just focus on the task at hand, shall we?”

“Other ideas?” Grantaire pressed, watching Jehan keenly. “Like what?”

“It doesn't matter yet,” Jehan insisted. The look they flashed Grantaire was warning, as if they knew he knew that they knew---well, there was understanding, between them.

“Alright,” he said. “Let's go. I hope Eponine isn't dead.”

“Urgh, me too,” Bahorel said, scooping up Joly, who gave a squeak of surprise – clearly he hadn't expected anyone to take his comment about being carried seriously. “Gavroche has my number. We'll _never_ hear the end of it she is.”

-

Fortunately for Bahorel's phone and everyone else's sanity, Eponine was very much alive and annoyed by the time they returned to Grantaire's apartment. She was watching television with her feet up on the coffee table, the sun was sinking over the cluttered Parisian skyline, and Enjolras was whimpering like a dog that needed to be let out from inside the bedroom.

“Was he good?” Joly asked.

“Don't say it like she was babysitting a toddler, Joly,” Feuilly said. He glanced at Eponine. “But was he?”

“He was fine,” Eponine muttered. “He's been making that sound for a while, though. It's fucking creepy, frankly. He doesn't even sound human anymore.”

Grantaire didn't like that. It was true, of course, but still – he didn't like it being said, out loud, where he couldn't ignore it. Courfeyrac kicked off his shoes so aggressively he sent one of them rocketing into Bahorel's leg like a torpedo and rushed over to the bedroom door, sinking to his knees.

“Enjolras? Are you okay?”

“Courfeyrac...” Enjolras' voice was so faint that everyone stopped to listen. “I'm so tired...my throat hurts.”

Courfeyrac swallowed hard, turning to look to the rest of them. “Something's wrong,” he said. “He sounds really weak, guys.”

“He's hungry,” Jehan said quietly. “He hasn't had anything to eat or drink in – how many days, now?”

Courfeyrac's eyes grew wide as saucers. “Oh god – I didn't even think – we're starving him to death!”

“We can't let him feed,” Jehan said. “We can't. Not even a little bit, that could be all it takes.”

“Well we have to do _something_,” Combeferre protested, looking just as pained as Courfeyrac. “If he dies before we can kill the head vampire, it's all for nothing, isn't it?”

“He can have a little of my blood,” Courfeyrac offered, pale as a sheet. “I'm squeamish, so I might faint, but you can give him a bit anyway. We can put it in a glass. Grantaire has those little fun paper umbrellas, don't you?”

Grantaire stared at him, mouth agape. Everyone had gone fucking crazy.

“I'm not bleeding you like some 19th century quack,” Combeferre said sternly. “But we _do_ need to think of something.”

“It'll have to wait until tomorrow,” Jehan muttered. “No rash decisions, from anyone. In the meantime – Grantaire, do you have any meat?”

“Please, _please_ don't make a dick joke,” Eponine said, closing her eyes. “I am begging you, do _not_ make a dick joke.”

Grantaire flushed. “There's a fillet steak in the fridge,” he said.

“_Steak?_” Eponine opened her eyes to look at him with outrage. “What the fuck, when did you get rich?”

“I like nice food,” Grantaire snapped back. His head was starting to spin. “Whatever happened to 'treat yo self'?"

“At least you can tell people you bought Enjolras a fancy dinner,” Bossuet said, less than helpfully.

“Shut up, Bossuet."

-

That night, sleeping on the sofa with Bahorel snoring at his feet, Grantaire dreamed of bones. Dark, cold, old bones, buried deep, deep, deep in blackness. So old they had no names, no memory. So old that they were lost. The world was cold and dark and stale, the air smelling of mould and dirt and every dead thing in Paris. He felt as though he was falling, spiralling endlessly into the bowels of some great Leviathan.

That night, Grantaire dreamed of bones.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's a vampire story without a little homoerotic consensual blood-drinking, hey?

Grantaire woke with a start, sitting upright so suddenly that he managed to startle Bahorel's snoring to an abrupt stop. A beat passed, and then he started back up again, sounding like an asthmatic walrus blowing on a broken party horn. Grantaire let out a sharp breath. The nightmare was still branded vividly in his mind; rows upon rows upon rows of skulls, staring back at him from the darkness, their hollow eye sockets black and empty. He swung his legs off the sofa, over Bahorel, and stood. From the window in the kitchenette he could see the sky starting to grow pale on the horizon, the rooftops of Paris bathed in the hazy blue light of the approaching dawn. Grantaire looked at the bedroom door. He wondered if Enjolras was lying awake, tormented by his situation. The thought made him feel physically sick.

It wasn't right, locking him up in there like some kind of prisoner. Like an animal. No matter what, whatever war that was raging inside of him, Grantaire had no choice but to believe Enjolras was very much still – well, Enjolras. The alternative was unthinkable. He was the single most good and righteous person Grantaire had ever met. The idea that some faceless stranger on the metro could change that immutable fact was inconceivable, and Grantaire was refusing to accept it. He'd spent his whole life being a cynic, but in that moment, standing barefoot in his tiny, shitty apartment wearing nothing but old boxer shorts and a t-shirt, Grantaire decided it was as good a time as any to take a leap of faith. He padded over to the bedroom door, and unlocked it.

With the blackout blinds closed it was pitch black inside the room, and it took Grantaire a moment of squinting into the darkness to see Enjolras, lying on his back on the bed. He was awake, and his eyes cut immediately to Grantaire, but he seemed listless and weak, and didn't even move at the sight of him.

“Hey,” Grantaire said, the word cracking a little as it left his mouth.

“Hey,” was the feeble reply.

Grantaire took a step into the room, and, like an idiot, closed the door behind him.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, like it wasn't the stupidest question in the world. Enjolras, to his credit, didn't point this out – he merely turned his head on the pillow a little more to look at him properly.

“I don't feel well,” he said. He didn't sound well, either, Grantaire thought. His voice was weak, like he'd been screaming along to a rock concert all night and his throat was hoarse. And his face – Grantaire didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so unnaturally, unhealthily pale.

“Oh,” he said. “You can't tell.”

Enjolras shot him a withering look. It was reassuring to know his personality hadn't changed, at least.

“I know I look...bad,” he said. Grantaire had the feeling he'd wanted to say 'like shit'. “I feel so tired. I'm aching all over.”

“Well, you're starving,” Grantaire blurted, almost without thought. He wanted to retract the words the moment he'd said them, but Enjolras didn't give him the chance.

“I am,” he said. “But better that than I hurt somebody.”

“Fuck, this is – I can't stand it,” Grantaire said, running one hand through his hair. He grew brave enough – or stupid enough, maybe – to sit down on the end of the bed. Enjolras tucked up his legs under the sheets to give him more space. “I wish I could take back every awful joke I've ever made about you being a martyr.”

“You had no way of knowing this would happen,” Enjolras argued, ever the diplomat. “It's not exactly something people plan for.”

“Yeah, you don't say." Grantaire looked down, feeling sick to his stomach. What little soft blue light crept into the room around the edges of the blind illuminated his arms, and suddenly Grantaire found himself admiring his wrists, and the veins running like a network of metro trains just under the surface of his skin.

He glanced at Enjolras, and extended one arm towards him. “Here.”

Enjolras stared at it without blinking. “I don't understand.”

“You need blood,” Grantaire prompted, gesturing. “So – here. Have some of mine.”

“Don't joke.”

“I'm not joking. I mean it. Just enough to restore you a bit.”

Enjolras looked at him like he'd gone completely mad. “Are you serious?”

“For once,” Grantaire said. “You finally got me to be serious.”

“What if I can't stop?”

Grantaire felt his insides twist into a little ball. “You will,” he said, with far more confidence than the situation warranted. He motioned to his wrist again. “Look, you're obviously near death – or – uh. Whatever happens, to vampires.”

“Please don't use that word,” Enjolras muttered. “It feels ridiculous.”

“Alright. What do you prefer, living-impaired? You're going to have to give me a rant on supernatural microaggressions so I don't get it wrong.”

“This isn't the time to be teasing me about my activism.”

Grantaire deflated. “I know,” he said, softly. “I'm sorry I'm just – trying to lighten the mood, I guess. You know I wouldn't joke about those kinds of things about real people.”

“Real people,” Enjolras echoed. He turned his face away. “Am I not real anymore, or not a person? Which is it?”

Grantaire winced. Remarkable, he thought, that even sitting awkwardly on the bed he succeeded in getting his foot all the way into his mouth. Pretty talented, really.

“I didn't mean like that,” he said. “It's just – like you said, it feels...well, it feels kind of surreal.” He swallowed hard, and then stuck his arm out one more time. “Come on. You obviously need it. I promise I don't mind. I trust you to be able to stop. Besides, Bahorel is only in the living room. I'll shout, if I have to.”

Enjolras looked like he very much wanted to refuse outright – and perhaps he would have, if something else in him hadn't been driving him. Grantaire saw his nostrils flare slightly, his pupils dilating like a cat. It was scary, in all honesty, and it took resolve Grantaire didn't even know he had not to call the whole thing off and make a run for it. Enjolras sat up, shuffling closer to him on the mattress.

“Are you sure?” he asked, gaze fixed on Grantaire's exposed wrist as though he could smell the blood rushing through his veins.

“Very sure,” Grantaire said.

"But - if it makes you like me---"

"It didn't when you bit my lip."

"But if it does---"

"Then you'll no longer be alone."

"Grantaire..."

"You need to eat, Enjolras."

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, and then reached out, wrapping his long fingers around Grantaire's wrist and bringing it to his lips. The pain was brief – like being pricked with particularly large two needles at once – and then Grantaire felt the warm flow of blood leaving his arm. Enjolras closed his eyes as he fed, his brows furrowed. Slowly the frown melted away, into something almost like euphoria, and---

He moaned. Grantaire froze, watching Enjolras tremble with pleasure as though in the throes of passion, and suddenly feared he was about to get hard in his boxers. An erection was probably the last thing Grantaire needed right now – that and to develop some kind of weird kink via accidental pavlovian conditioning. Hell, if all the blood went downstairs, would Enjolras notice? Grantaire couldn't think, could barely even breathe – and then he began to feel a little light-headed, and remembered exactly what was happening.

“Okay---okay, stop,” he said, clearing his throat. “I need to tap out, Enjolras. I---stop!”

For a moment it seemed like he wouldn't; his fingers tightened around Grantaire's wrist, vicelike, hurting, but then at last he came to his senses. He pulled away with a sharp gasp, as though coming up for air. His lips were bright red, and his breath was shaky, his eyes dark and unfocused.

“Oh,” he said, and then flopped back down onto the mattress, panting. “That was---thank you. I think you were right. I needed that.”

“Uh---yeah. I think you did.” Grantaire imagined his voice was about five octaves higher than usual, but Enjolras was clearly in no position to point it out. He looked dazed, he looked sated, he looked---well, there was no way around it - he looked like he'd just been fucked six ways from Sunday.

Grantaire cleared his throat again, searching around the bed for an old t-shirt to wrap his wrist. It wasn't hard to find one - his bedroom floor was practically a graveyard of unwashed laundry. “Well, that was a success, I think,” he said, looking everywhere but at Enjolras. The thought of making eye contact with him after that felt excruciating.

“It was,” Enjolras agreed, breathlessly. “Why do I feel like I need a cigarette? I don't even smoke.”

“And you shouldn't start,” Grantaire said. “Joly would kill you. I mean, drinking human blood is one thing, but _smoking?_”

Enjolras laughed lightly. “I suppose you're right,” he said, still sounding utterly spent. Grantaire finally dared to look back over his shoulder at him, seeing that he was still sprawled out on the mattress like they'd just made love. Fuck – maybe they had, by vampire standards? What if it was like Vulcans and hand-holding? Grantaire was starting to think he should have at least bought him dinner, first.

But then – he had, actually.

“Did you eat that steak?” he asked.

Enjolras blinked sleepily at him. “Hmm...?”

God, he sounded completely out of it. “The steak,” Grantaire repeated.

“Oh...” Enjolras closed his eyes, pointing half-heartedly across the room to the dresser. “I tried. It made me feel sick. I don't think I can eat food anymore.”

Grantaire's heart ached; he sounded so resigned, even beneath the contented purring of his voice.

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire said. “That must suck---fuck, that was a bad choice of word---”

Enjolras laughed again, watching him from his pillow. “It's alright,” he said. “I'll give you a pass on that, since we just---um.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire squeezed his t-shirt around his wrist a little tighter. “Did it help?”

A stupid question, really. It had definitely been pleasant for him, at the very least – and beyond that, there was a little colour in his cheeks now, where he'd been grey as a corpse before. He looked much healthier, much more alive. Grantaire wondered how it all even worked; was that flush of blood in Enjolras' cheeks his own, or what he'd just drained out of Grantaire? If the situations wasn't so totally fucked up he might have found it all fascinating.

“It helped,” Enjolras confirmed.

“Good. I don't know what we're going to tell the others about this,” Grantaire said. “I'm going to get called a reckless idiot so many times it'll lose all meaning.”

“It's because they care about you,” Enjolras said, softly. “I shouldn't have let you do this...”

“If it was between this or you dying it was an easy choice.”

Enjolras went very quiet.

“Will you stay here?”

Grantaire did a double take. “I'm sorry – what?”

“Here,” Enjolras moved on the mattress to make room for him. “It's your bed, after all.”

“Yeah but – you're in it,” Grantaire said, dumbfounded.

“I don't want to be alone, right now,” Enjolras admitted. He turned his face away as though confessing to murder. “You're the only one who hasn't been scared to come in here and see me.”

Grantaire thought it was probably best not to mention that he was, in fact, shit scared, and that he'd only mustered the courage to do so because he was 1) hopelessly in love, and 2) notoriously bad at self-preservation. He shrugged. “You're – you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you're an insufferably good person,” he said. “I knew you wouldn't hurt me if – well, when you're in your right mind.”

“I'm sorry, about last time,” Enjolras said. “I don't know what happened...”

“It isn't your fault. I get that. Do you really want me to sleep in here with you?”

Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire couldn't have denied him if he tried. He tied the t-shirt firmly around his wrist and moved over, thanking Enjolras as he pulled back the sheets for him to crawl into bed. It was remarkable timing, he thought; with the sun starting to rise outside, they'd found themselves caught in the only small window of sleep that they shared. Grantaire would be waking up in a few hours – he'd need to do so before Bahorel did, lest he think Grantaire dead – and Enjolras would likely be sleeping the day away again. But, for a brief period of time, there was peace.

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to get real serious real quick next chapter...this beast WILL be complete by THIS halloween at least ^^'

Enjolras was traversing long, dark, endless tunnels when a familiar voice cut into his dreams. He jolted awake, opening his eyes to see a great, hulking shadow looming over him in the dark bedroom, brandishing something at arms length.

It took Enjolras a moment to make sense of the situation. He was warm, comfortable, pressed up against---_oh_. Against Grantaire, who had one arm slung lazily over his waist and a faceful of Enjolras' curls. He was pressed up against Grantaire, in Grantaire's bed, with Bahorel standing over him, yelling expletives and thrusting a crucifix into his face. Briefly it occurred to Enjolras that he might still be dreaming, but then the events of the last week came rushing back, and his heart dropped like a stone.

“Get away from him!” Bahorel cried. “Fuck, I don't want to have to hurt you! Eponine, get in here! It's finally happened – Enjolras killed R!”

Eponine appeared in the doorway, looking so wide-eyed and frantic that for a moment Enjolras began to doubt himself. Maybe he _had_ killed him. Maybe he hadn't been able to stop, when Grantaire had offered up his wrist, and everything that had followed was in his head. Maybe he was sleeping next to a corpse---but then, Grantaire was very, very toasty for a corpse.

Finally, Grantaire sat upright, dispelling all of Enjolras' fears.

“_Finally_ happened?” Grantaire echoed, rubbing his eyes. “Geez, thanks a lot!”

All the colour rushed back into Bahorel's face at once. “Oh thank fuck!” he said. “You're alive!”

Eponine physically sagged with relief – and then whirled on Grantaire.

“You fucking _dumbass! _What the hell do you think you're doing getting cuddly with him? Have you forgotten what he is?”

Her words cut Enjolras to the bone, but he didn't disagree with her assessment. He'd been selfish, asking Grantaire to stay, and Grantaire had been an idiot for agreeing to it.

“It's okay!” Grantaire said, sounding almost desperate. “Really! I was right – he's still Enjolras. Look---” he waved his arm up, unwinding the t-shirt from around his wrist like he was unwrapping a present. Eponine let out a horrified sound.

“He bit you!”

“I let him!”

“Well you fucking deserve to get eaten then, you moron!”

“He only had a little,” Grantaire argued, in much the same way Enjolras had heard him argue his own sobriety. “And he stopped. He was able to.”

“Oh man, that's fucking weird,” Bahorel said, white as a sheet. “You should've just let him drain you, R, 'cause Joly is going to kill you himself.”

“I had to do _something_,” Grantaire argued. “No one else seemed to have any helpful ideas! You'd have all let him starve because you were too chickenshit to do what needed to be done!”

“Don't you take the moral high-ground here,” Eponine warned, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “We all know _exactly_ why you did what you did!”

Enjolras looked between all three of his friends, feeling as though he was missing some very important detail no one was willing to fill him in on.

“We're going to be in so much trouble if you vamp-out as well, R,” Bahorel said, scrunching both hands up in his hair in panic. “Jehan told me to keep a close eye on you. They're gonna have me killed and stuffed like that taxidermy fox in their apartment, I just fucking know it!”

“I'm fine!” Grantaire persisted, red-faced. “Really! And in case it escaped your notice – so is he.”

Eponine turned her attention to Enjolras suddenly, as though only just remembering he was in the room.

“Oh – you're not trying to kill anyone,” she said, with an almost alarming lack of feeling.

“No,” Enjolras said. “I'm not.”

“See?” Grantaire said, almost smugly. “He was acting all crazy because he was hungry. He's fine now that he's fed.”

Bahorel nodded sagely. “I get like that when I'm hangry, too. Granted I've never tried to _kill_ anyone yet, but I get it.”

“He does seem to be under control,” Eponine muttered. “But I still don't like this, R. What are you gonna do if this is the thing that turned him full vampire?”

That hadn't even occurred to Enjolras until now; from the look on his face it was clear it hadn't occurred to Grantaire, either.

“I...don't know,” he said.

“Exactly,” Eponine said. “What, you'll just be on call as his personal snack for the rest of your life?”

“If Courfeyrac was here he'd make such a good joke about that,” Bahorel said.

“Shut up, Bahorel. Well, R?”

Grantaire hesitated, looking as though he was giving the idea very real thought. Enjolras stared at him. Daunting and awful and strange as it was, Enjolras could definitely imagine worse fates than having Grantaire permanently around for decades to come. Finally, Grantaire shrugged.

“I guess so.”

Eponine groaned, throwing up her hands. “I give up! You're hopeless!”

-

The rest of the group arrived promptly, piling into the little apartment and immediately laying into Grantaire the moment Eponine told them what happened. Just as Grantaire predicted the words 'reckless idiot' were thrown around more than once, with varying degrees of anger and concern. They did all this while Enjolras – finally allowed out of the bedroom now that he was no longer deemed an immediate threat – sat quietly on the sofa scrolling through social media on his phone, the blinds drawn to keep the sun out of the room. He imagined, as a vampire, he should have probably been doing something more dark and mysterious than checking Twitter - perhaps ordering a cape online, or deciding which part of France he was going to buy an old decrepit château in.

“Something about this is worrying me,” Jehan said, causing Enjolras to finally glance up from his phone.

“Uh, yeah, no shit,” said Joly. “Bit late on that, Jehan.”

“Not what I mean,” Jehan said. “If Enjolras biting R hasn't turned him into a vampire too, that means one of two things. Either half-vampires can't turn other people, or just biting someone isn't enough to do it.”

“And?”

“And if it's the latter, it means what happened to Enjolras wasn't an accident. It wasn't a vampire just biting someone to feed and turning him in the process. It means they went out of their way to do it. It means it was on purpose. It means they had a _reason_.”

There was a beat of awful, stomach-turning silence.

“I don't like that,” Courfeyrac whispered, his eyes wide as saucers. “Why would anyone---I mean—-I know they're not _human, _but why...?”

“I don't know,” Jehan said. “But it can't be good.”

“We all need to start watching our backs, then,” Combeferre suggested, fiddling with his glasses. “Just in case. If they went after Enjolras they might still want him – the could come for us.”

Eponine visibly recoiled. “Oh fuck _that! _No offence to your dear leader, but I'm not getting drained by some unholy bloodsucker just because he missed his stop on the Metro!”

“Can you not all talk about me like I'm not here?” Enjolras said, finally daring to speak up. All heads turned to him.

“I'm sorry,” Courfeyrac said, coming to sit beside him on the sofa. When he opened his arms Enjolras leaned into the hug without hesitation, grateful at least one other person in their friend group wasn't afraid to touch him.

“No, _I'm_ sorry,” Enjolras murmured. “I dragged you all into this.”

“It's okay,” Courfeyrac said. “We're going to protect you.”

Enjolras' heart ached at the tenderness of his words. “_You're_ going to protect _me? _Courf...”

“I mean it. We're going to fix this. We're splitting into two groups today; one is going to head to Montmartre cemetery, the other Montparnasse. We're going to find this thing and fix everything.”

Enjolras was starting to doubt that would ever happen. Paris was huge – trying to find the 'head vampire' was like looking for a needle in a proverbial haystack. How would they even know, if they found it? And what would they _do,_ if they actually did? They weren't exactly well-prepared for vampire slaying.

He didn't voice any of this aloud; the look in Courfeyrac's eyes was so determined, and Enjolras couldn't bear to be the one to dash his hopes.

“Will you stay here with me, today?” he asked, instead.

“Oh – I was gonna go with 'Ferre, but...” Courfeyrac exchanged a look with the others, and then turned to Enjolras and smiled. “I guess I can stay.”

-

“So what really happened between you and R?”

Enjolras shifted his head on the pillow, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You know _exactly_ what,” Courfeyrac said, grinning like the Cheshire cat from where he was lying on his side next to Enjolras. “The whole blood-drinking thing – is that_ all_ that happened?”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose. “Seriously, Courf? Do you really think _now_ is the time for a passionate fling?”

“Well I just figured I'd ask. Seems a pretty intimate thing, I was just wondering if it went further...”

“I'm pretty sure 'further' than drinking blood would just be straight up murdering him, Courf, not sex,” Enjolras said dryly. “Unless you have some weird kinks you're not telling me about.”

“Oh I can totally tell you about my kinks if you want me to.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, that isn't one of them. Anyway – you can't blame me for thinking it!” Courfeyrac raised one eyebrow. “You've already had your tongue halfway down his throat once this week.”

“I was trying to _kill_ him,” Enjolras pointed out, feeling sick with shame. “Not exactly the circumstances under which I wanted to be kissing him."

Courfeyrac's entire face lit up. “Oh, so you _do_ want to kiss him?”

Enjolras felt heat flood into his cheeks. “I never said that!”

“You basically did!”

“Well you obviously misheard.”

“Bullshit! You _so_ have the hots for him. I knew it. 'Ferre and I called it literally years ago, you two have the most drawn out mating ritual we've ever seen.”

“You're both wrong, then,” Enjolras said, closing his eyes. “It's the middle of the afternoon, Courf. I need to sleep.”

“Ah, right.” Courfeyrac nodded. “The vampire thing.”

“Yeah, the vampire thing.”

“Goodnight, then – or, uh, good-day?”

Enjolras smirked to himself. “Good-day.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets serious.
> 
> Also I may actually finish this in time for Halloween THIS year, so what d'ya know!

“Well that was a waste of time!”

Though he said nothing, privately Grantaire couldn't help but agree with Bahorel's assessment of the situation. They'd spent the entire day walking around Montmartre until their feet were aching, all for nothing. Just like Père-Lachaise the day before, Montmartre had proven a total bust, and by the time the sun was sinking behind the rooftops Grantaire was starting to suspect Jehan had sent them wandering around the cemeteries of Paris to keep them busy whilst they concocted a _real_ plan.

“It wasn't a _total_ waste,” Cosette argued, mildly. “The cats were nice.”

“After all this crazy vampire stuff, I'm not even sure they _were _cats,” Eponine muttered. “That one with the dodgy eye could see into my soul, I swear. I wonder if they had any more luck at Montparnasse?”

“I doubt it,” Grantaire said, flashing her his phone to make a point. “Unless Count Dracula has killed all our friends and figured out how to send emojis exactly like Joly does.”

“Pity. Let's split a taxi home. The Metro creeps me out right now.”

-

They met up with the others outside Grantaire's apartment building fifteen minutes later, the rest of the group just as weary-footed as they were. They had obviously shared Eponine's misgivings about taking the Metro, because their taxi pulled up at the side of the road less than thirty seconds after their own.

“Find anything, Van Helsing?” Eponine asked Jehan as they climbed out of the back of the minivan. Jehan shook their head.

“Nothing at Montparnasse.”

“Nothing at Montmartre, either,” Grantaire reported. “So what now?”

“I have a few ideas,” Jehan murmured, without bothering to elaborate on what those ideas were. “Lets get inside and discuss what to do next.”

“Yeah, we should probably get back to the apartment,” Eponine said, shooting Grantaire a scathing look. “Your Fearless Leader is probably in need of a snack, right R?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“There are other cemeteries in Paris,” Combeferre said, whipping out his phone as they all began to file into the stairwell of the building, Grantaire left holding the door open for them all like a valet. “Passy, Picpus, Grenelle...”

“Stop, please, you're upsetting my feet,” Bossuet whined. “They can't withstand anymore torture.”

“No more cemeteries,” Jehan promised. “I think we need to consider other options.” There was something grave in their voice – ha,_ grave_ – and hearing it Grantaire was once again certain there was something Jehan wasn't telling them all.

“Doesn't this building have an elevator?” Joly complained, clinging to the bannister as they trudged up the stairs. Knowing the calibre of his neighbours Grantaire wouldn't have touched the bannister bare-handed if someone paid him to, and he hoped Joly had plenty of hand sanitizer in his satchel.

“You think I can afford somewhere that fancy?”

“But it's a breach of basic accessibility laws!”

“Why don't you tell Enjolras that?” Bahorel joked. “Might snap him out of his vampirism if he has a cause to write a strongly worded letter about, hey?”

“I dunno, think about how useful a vampire could be on the front lines of a protest?” Bossuet raised his eyebrows. “All Cops Are Bastards? Nah, All Cops Are _Breakfast!_”

“He can't have breakfast, he can't be out in the sun,” Joly said.

“McDonald's breakfast starts at like, five AM. You can have breakfast when it's dark out.”

“Does it count as breakfast if you've been up all night? I don't think---”

Joly broke off mid-sentence, and when he followed his gaze, Grantaire froze.

The apartment door was open.

The apartment door was _wide_ open, and spots of dark, thick liquid spattered the top few steps outside his apartment. For a moment Grantaire tried to convince himself it was paint – that Courfeyrac was playing a tasteless joke on them all, and had gotten into Grantaire's art supplies – but then Combeferre was shouldering past him, running up the stairs shouting Courfeyrac's name, and all hell broke loose.

“Stop him!” Jehan shouted. Bahorel tried to oblige, taking a flying leap at Combeferre and missing. Joly attempted to trip him with his cane.

Eponine grabbed a fistful of his jacket and held on for dear life.

“Don't go in there!” she cried, planting her feet. Bahorel recovered from his nose-dive onto the staircase and joined her, holding Combeferre by the other arm as Jehan pushed their way through the group to inspect the scene. Grantaire followed, and as he reached the apartment door and saw more blood on the carpet in the living room, dread came crashing over him like a tsunami. A glance at the open bedroom door confirmed the worst possible scenario; Enjolras was gone. And Courfeyrac – oh, fuck, where was Courfeyrac? That blood had to belong to _someone_. Suddenly Grantaire was imagining sunny, cheerful Courfeyrac lying somewhere in his apartment with his throat torn out, and he thought he was about to be sick. Or pass out. Or cry. He didn't actually know.

As he was trying to decide how best to respond to the likely bloody and violent death of one of his closest friends, a faint sound rose up from the kitchenette, like a mewling cat. Grantaire and Jehan whirled around as one to see Courfeyrac on the linoleum floor, propped up against the kitchen cupboard with a dish-towel pressed to his neck.

“Hey,” he said. “You come here often?”

The sense of relief that Grantaire felt was almost enough to knock him off his feet.

“Where is he?! Is he okay?!”

Combeferre came bursting into the apartment like a man possessed, having apparently weaselled his way out of Bahorel and Eponine's grasp.

“I'm alive,” Courfeyrac croaked. “Don't worry. It's all good.”

“You're bleeding!” Combeferre exclaimed, immediately kneeling to examine his wound. “What happened?!”

“Do you really need to ask?” Eponine said, appearing in the doorway. “What do you _think_ happened? Enjolras went feral.”

“It wasn't his fault,” Courfeyrac argued, wincing as Combeferre peeled the towel away from his neck. “It was like something was possessing him. I could see it in his eyes, he wanted to stop. And he did! He didn't bite me! He didn't seem to even want to, it was more like he just wanted to get out! I got this when he threw me against the oven and the glass – oh, sorry, R, the oven door is broken. Your security deposit is fucked.”

“He could have killed you,” Combeferre said, shaking. He looked as though he didn't know how to feel – like he wanted to hate Enjolras for what had happened, but couldn't, or wouldn't, or felt guilty for it. Now that his heart was no longer trying to burst through his ribs 'Alien'-style, Grantaire felt only misery. Enjolras had attacked his best friend. No one would need to hate him – Enjolras would hate himself enough for everyone.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“I don't know.” Courfeyrac frowned. “I sort of passed out, and when I woke up – he was gone, and the door was open...”

“Fuck,” Feuilly said, emphatically.

“_Fuck,_” Bahorel agreed.

“He's gone to hunt,” Jehan murmured, staring at the floor. Grantaire felt sick. There it was again, that strangeness in their voice that made him sure they were keeping secrets.

“Well what do we do?” Bossuet asked, as the rest of the group crammed into the apartment to hold Courfeyrac's hands and fuss over him as Combeferre picked glass out of his neck.

Jehan didn't seem to have an answer to Bossuet's question. They sat down slowly on the sofa, gripping the cushion as though to keep it from running off beneath them.

“Jehan?” Grantaire pressed. “What's wrong?”

“I – it's his third strike.”

“What?”

“He asked – he made me promise...”

Grantaire felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. “What? What did he make you promise? Jehan...”

“He made me promise that if he hit three strikes, I'd...” Their eyes darted to the clutter they'd emptied onto the coffee table the day before, and the wooden stake Grantaire had threatened to insert somewhere very uncomfortable.

“No,” Grantaire said, instantly. “No – you're not – I won't let you.”

“Enjolras made me promise.”

“Well Enjolras clearly wants to be a fucking martyr, but that doesn't mean we're going to let him be one!"

“What other option is there?” Jehan said, raising their voice. Silence fell over the room. “He's not – he's not fully Enjolras anymore, R...” They winced, as though the very thought was unbearably painful. It wasn't as unbearably painful as what Grantaire would do if they tried to put that stake anywhere near Enjolras, though.

“They're right,” Eponine said, still lingering by the front door. Grantaire turned on her, horrified.

“Traitor!”

“Well it's true! We have to think about other people, R!”

“Since when did you give a shit about other people?”

“Since when did _you_ being in love with someone give you the right to put the rest of us in danger?” Eponine retorted.

Grantaire flinched. No one had ever actually dared say it out loud before, at least not in quite such plain terms. It felt like she'd just plucked his heart out of his chest and held it aloft for everyone to see. And the worst part – the worst part was that she was right. He looked at Courfeyrac, stupid floral button-down drenched in blood and lucky to be alive, and was sure he was going to throw up after all.

Enjolras was out there right now, on the dark streets of Paris, possibly killing people.

“There has to be some other way,” he said.

“You can't _kill _him,” Courfeyrac piped up, as though only just realising what was being discussed. “No – you can't! He's our friend! He's my _best _friend. 'Ferre, tell them!”

Combeferre hesitated. “I – I don't know,” he admitted. “Enjolras is – he's like my brother, but if he kills someone...”

“What are we going to do, vote on it?” Feuilly asked, incredulous. “Because you realise how crazy that sounds, right? Let's vote on killing our friend?”

“Do you really think Enjolras would be able to live with himself if he killed somebody?” Eponine said. “What does it matter, anyway – we have no idea where he is!”

As more arguing broke out, Grantaire found himself completely numb. He sat down beside Jehan, unable to speak. 'He's not fully Enjolras anymore', Jehan had said. It wasn't true. Grantaire knew it wasn't true. He'd shared a bed with him, had held him all night, and not once had he felt as though he was in any danger. Enjolras was still Enjolras, but something else had a hold on him.

He unwound the bandage from around his arm to look at the bite mark on his wrist, bruised and slightly red. He'd stopped, when Grantaire had told him to. He refused to believe that Enjolras was too far gone to come back.

He touched his fingertips lightly to the bite, and suddenly, Grantaire was no longer in his apartment.

He was in the dark – such deep, deep dark that he felt as though he might be swallowed whole by it and disappear forever. Before he knew it the dark was changing, shifting, until stone walls came into view around him. Cold, stale air was rushing up from somewhere ahead, blowing his curls around his face. It smelled like a graveyard. And then he heard it – a high-pitched, distant screeching, like the sound of a train growing closer, like the Metro, like---

He gasped and jolted, coughing, squinting against the bright light of his apartment.

“What the _fuck?_”

It was Bossuet's voice that made Grantaire look up and realise he was lying on the floor, on the gross old rug by the coffee table, all of his friends crowded around him.

“What just happened?” Joly asked, looking nervously between Grantaire and Jehan. Jehan knelt down beside him.

“R – did you see anything?”

“What?”

“You got all weird,” Bahorel said. “Your eyes glazed over and you just dropped like a stone!”

Grantaire sat up slowly, bracing himself against the coffee table. He could still hear the sound of the Metro train fading away to nothing.

“What did you see?” Jehan demanded, clasping his shoulder.

“I – tunnels,” Grantaire blurted, confused. "I saw tunnels." What had happened? Had he had some kind of stress-induced stroke? And how did Jehan know he'd seen something?

“Tunnels?” Jehan repeated. Something like dread entered their eyes. “You're sure?”

Grantaire nodded dumbly. “Am I drunk? I didn't think – I mean, I've been staying sober, I---”

“You're not drunk.” Jehan stood, pulling Grantaire to his feet. “I don't know what happened, exactly – I only know about vampires from reading, and pop culture – but I think when Enjolras bit you, you opened up some kind of...connection.”

“That sounds kinda gay,” Bahorel said. Jehan ignored him.

“I don't understand how it works any more than you do, R, but I think you're able to see things – important things – and...” They closed their eyes and inhaled deeply, as though steeling themself for something truly unpleasant, like waxing their legs or removing a particularly big splinter..."...And it confirms what I suspected from the start.”

“What?” Combeferre asked, from where he was still tending to Courfeyrac's neck. He was peeking his head above the kitchen counter like a meerkat. “What did you suspect?”

Jehan sighed. “Enjolras was bitten at Denfert Rochereau, right? Well, a lot of tourists get off at Denfert Rochereau. Do you know why?”

“Uh, yeah, because this is _Paris_,” Eponine said, dryly. “A lot of tourists get off at every stop on the Metro.”

“I know why,” Marius piped up. Everyone turned to him. It was the first time he'd spoken since they'd returned to the apartment to find Courfeyrac re-enacting a scene from a horror movie. Marius shrugged timidly. “It's because of the catacombs, right?”

Grantaire's stomach sank.

“You think Enjolras is in the catacombs?”

Jehan nodded slowly.

“Oh fuck,” Joly said. “Oh fucking titty-fucking _fuck_. No. Absolutely no way.”

“Maybe he'll only eat tourists?” Bahorel put in, as though it was in any way helpful.

Grantaire swallowed hard. He could taste bile at the back of his throat.

“If he's down there – why?”

“There's hidden entrances to the catacombs all over the Left Bank,” Jehan said. “Most of them are through the sewers or the Metro. Courfeyrac said he was more interested in getting out of the apartment than feeding. I'll bet you anything the vampire that turned him is down in the catacombs, and came up through the metro at Denfert Rochereau. That's why he's gone down there. That's why Courfeyrac said it was like he was possessed. Whatever did this to him – it's calling him to come home.”

A beat of silence followed Jehan's words.

“So what are we going to do?” Grantaire asked, finally. Jehan picked up the wooden stake from the table, and thrust it into Grantaire's hand.

“We're going to go and kill the bastard thing,” they said, firmly. “And save our friend.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surpriiiiiise! We know our vampire!  
I couldn't help myself. I mean, really? Named for a cemetery? You goth motherfucker.

When Enjolras woke he was lying on a hard floor, the left side of his face pressed against freezing cold stone. He raised his head and opened his eyes, finding that everything around him was pitch black. Pitch black, and completely silent. The air smelled strange – musty and stale. Old, dead air, like the inside of a crypt. He had no idea where he was. He had no memory of even getting there. There was a hazy memory somewhere at the back of his mind; Courfeyrac's face, his eyes wide as saucers, car headlights swimming past him, all the sounds and sights of Paris after dark. And then nothing.

“You're awake, then.”

Enjolras startled, scrambling up onto his feet. He didn't recognise the voice; he couldn't even pinpoint where in the darkness it was coming from.

“Who's there?” he asked, fighting to keep the tremble from his own.

A light suddenly ignited in the blackness - an oil lamp. Enjolras' mounting confusion shifted to horror as the flame from the lamp illuminated the tall, pale figure standing behind it.

The person – for it certainly looked very person-like – was white as alabaster, with dark hair. They were dressed immaculately, like a high-flying CEO, with a fitted suit jacket and perfectly pressed shirt. It was the thing from the Metro; Enjolras knew it on instinct alone. This time, though, it had a face. A handsome one, too, though he was definitely not Enjolras' type, far too clean-shaven and put-together. His eyes were dark as onyx, and his cheekbones looked as though they could cut someone.

“Are you comfortable?” the thing asked, voice like velvet. “You must forgive me, it has been a while since I've had guests.”

Enjolras glanced around; above his head was stone, beneath his feet, stone, either side of him, stone. A sinking feeling entered his stomach.

“Is this---”

“The catacombs. Yes. Dreary place, I know.” The thing gave an airy sigh. “I kept a beautiful townhouse in the Marais for a while, but it drew far too much attention, and so here I am. The world has become far more difficult to navigate for ones such as ourselves. I miss the days when I could drain a peasant dry under the veil of night without fear of discovery. Such blissful times.”

Enjolras swallowed hard. “You're the one who did this to me."

“Yes, well done. Smart one, aren't you? It is nice to meet you properly, after all of this. Ah – where are my manners?” The thing placed one hand over its heart – if it had one - and gave a polite bow, like a character from a Jane Austin adaptation. “My name is Montparnasse.”

“Like the cemetery?” Enjolras blurted. It was a completely absurd question, given every other thing he wanted to ask, but it was the first one that came to mind.

“Yes,” Montparnasse said. “Like the cemetery. I'm sure I had a more human name, once, but – you know. Things get a little muddled, after a few centuries. You'll understand, eventually.”

Enjolras stared at him. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Do you really want to know?” Montparnasse tilted his head. “You might not like the answer.”

“Tell me,” Enjolras demanded.

He –_ it_ – sighed again, rolling back his shoulders as though they were aching. “For fun.”

Enjolras blinked, sure he must had misheard him. “For...fun?”

“Yes.”

“I—I don't---”

“It gets boring, eternity. You find ways to pass the time.” Montparnasse sat himself down in a chair that Enjolras hadn't noticed before – it looked as though he had converted a small section of the tunnels into his own makeshift apartment, and Enjolras wondered how no one had seen the menacing figure moving in with all his things. It was somehow hard to envision a vampire putting together IKEA furniture.

“Every now and then, I find a do-gooder and I turn them, and then see how long it takes them to crack,” Montparnasse went on, studying Enjolras curiously. “It's fun. Charity workers, community outreach sorts, you know. They fight it so much harder than fascists and predators, there's no entertainment in those lot at all, too eager to hurt someone at the first opportunity.”

“That's why you did this to me,” Enjolras whispered. “For a laugh?”

“Yes. That night on the Metro you stood out to me.” Montparnasse's eyes gleamed in the lamplight. They were almost like a cat's, yellow and shining. “I like to hunt there. I don't show up on CCTV cameras – I disrupt them, you see – so when the platform is all but empty, it is easy enough to pick off a passenger waiting for their train.”

Enjolras' insides began to turn. “The recent spate of suicides on the Metro,” he said, something horrible dawning on him. “They weren't suicides. You---”

“Yes.” Montparnasse grinned, clearly very pleased with himself. “They don't look for a little bite on the neck once a body has been under a train. But _you_...” A note of wonderment entered his voice, silky and soft. “You approached me. You tried to _help_ me, thinking I was going to throw myself onto the tracks! It was so remarkably kind that I could not help but make sport of you.” Grantaire would have loved that, Enjolras thought. He'd always told him his bleeding heart was going to get him into trouble one day.

“Let me just say, you have been _very_ entertaining to watch,” Montparnasse added, when Enjolras didn't say anything.

“How?” Enjolras asked, baffled. “How have you been watching me?”

“Blood holds memories,” Montparnasse said. “I _made_ you. We have a connection, you and I. I know everything that's in your mind and in your heart..."

Enjolras didn't like that one bit. Even he didn't know what was in his heart most of the time - the last thing he wanted was some stranger prying into it. Another thought suddenly came to him.

“If you do this regularly, then there must be more...” he scowled. “Where are they all?”

Montparnasse laughed. “Oh, no, you misunderstand! I only keep them around long enough to see how they break. Once they finish turning, there's no fun, and I can't have competition running around Paris, can I? It's not hard to end them, when you've had as much practice as I have.”

A chilling realisation crept over Enjolras at his words. “That's why you've brought me down here,” he said. “To kill me.”

“Actually, no.” Montparnasse stood, stepping towards Enjolras, who moved back instinctively. “I don't want to kill you. You have been the only one to last this long without taking a life. I have found myself growing quite fond of you."

“So what, then? Why am I here?”

“I want to keep you around,” Montparnasse said. “I want a companion, and you are so remarkable that I see no better fit for it. Once you've made your first kill, of course. It's the kill that makes us complete.”

Enjolras let out a broken laugh. “Well then, you're shit out of luck.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I won't do it. I'll stay down here – I can't hurt anyone, here. I'll just stay until I waste away and that will be that. My friends don't know where I am. No one will find me.”

That grin returned to Montparnasse's face, wider, sharper. “Did you not listen to a thing I said? Why do you think I brought you down here? Blood holds memories. It opens up connections, pathways...” He raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I know one of your friends let you feed from him.”

Enjolras' heart dropped like a stone.

“W-what---”

“He'll know where to find you,” Montparnasse said, bluntly. “And from what I've seen of your friends, they'll come looking for you. And when they do, well...” He reached forwards and patted Enjolras on the cheek. “It will be a bloodbath.”

-

“Okay, so we have to time this pretty perfectly,” Combeferre said, squinting at his phone. “We only have a few hours between the Metro closing for the night and re-opening in the morning. It closes at around one-fifteen, and re-opens at five-thirty. That gives us exactly four hours and fifteen minutes to find a secret entrance to the catacombs, get down into them, find Enjolras, kill the head vampire, and get back.”

“And if we're too long down there?” Bossuet asked, nervously.

“Then we have to stay down there around twenty hours or so or risk getting run over by a train when we try to resurface.”

“Great,” Grantaire said. “Win-win.”

“Have you messaged Courfeyrac to let him know we're about to go in?” Jehan asked, rooting through their bag to check for God-knows-what. Courfeyrac had stayed back at the apartment, despite numerous protests to accompany them – he was still dizzy from bloodloss, and they'd all unanimously agreed that Courfeyrac fainting two-hundred feet underground wouldn't be conducive to pulling off their Genius Plan. Marius and Cosette had offered to hang behind to idiot-sit him, along with Joly, who had been understandably reluctant to venture down into the bowels of Hell with his cane.

“Affirmative,” Combeferre said.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Affirmative?”

“Sorry.” Combeferre fiddled self-consciously with his glasses. “I'm getting a little too invested in the meticulous nature of it all. It feels like being in a heist movie.”

“Right. Bossuet, did you message Chetta?”

Bossuet shook his head. “Nah – she's working, I didn't want to bother her."

“You didn't think to mention you might be eaten by a vampire?”

“If it happens Joly will tell her, probably.”

“Oh, probably,” Feuilly agreed, dryly.

Grantaire said nothing. He'd seen enough bad horror movies to know they were probably all going to get picked off one by one in horrific fashion. And yet he was going down there anyway. They all were, despite probably all thinking the same thing – namely, that this was fucking insane.

For starters, none of them owned a battery-powered torch, so it was phone flashlights for everybody – no chance of _that_ ending badly, Grantaire thought – and secondly, the map of the catacombs they'd pulled up off Google images didn't even show the street names above it. Hell, they didn't even know for sure _where_ they'd find an entrance into the tunnels. But they were going. Because they loved Enjolras, and they refused to give up on him. _Grantaire_ refused to give up on him. For all he lamented the state of their plan, he knew that if no one else had been willing, he'd have gone down there by himself.

“This is crazy,” Eponine said, giving a voice to everyone's feelings. She took a long drag off her cigarette, hand shaking. “Completely fucking crazy.”

“You don't have to come with us,” Grantaire muttered.

“No, I'm going.” She flicked the cigarette away, crushing it under her boot. “I've said some mean things to Blondie over the last few days. I'd feel pretty shit leaving him down there.”

Grantaire smirked. “That's very grown up of you...”

“Shut the fuck up.”

-

They must have looked suspicious, lingering around on the platform where Enjolras had been attacked at one in the morning with hoods pulled up over their heads. They'd filed into the metro station and then split up, standing apart to avoid drawing attention, but frankly Grantaire thought that just made it worse; they were very bad at pretending not to know each other, and so the end result was that they looked as though they were about to break into a badly choreographed flashmob.

Finally, after the longest ten minutes in history, the last train passed through Denfert Rochereau, screeching to a halt at the platform. The doors opened with a mechanical hiss, the few passengers on the train looked bewildered that none of the people supposedly waiting for the train seemed interested in boarding it, and then the doors closed again and the train pulled out of the station. The moment it disappeared from sight, they leapt into action; Feuilly sprang up onto a bench to tilt the CCTV camera away, the rest of them climbing down onto the tracks and heading towards the tunnel.

“Be careful,” Combeferre warned. “They're live, remember.”

“What are we even looking for?” Grantaire asked, turning on the torch on his phone and shining it at the ground.

“Like a manhole cover,” Jehan said, from the front of the line. “Or a grate.”

“And then what? We just lift it up and climb down into the literal underworld?” Bossuet grabbed a fistful of Grantaire's hoodie nervously; Grantaire had a mind to tell him to let go. If anyone was going to get fried on the tracks, it would be Bossuet, and with his luck he'd pull Grantaire with him and electrocute them both. “Are we sure the entrance is even down here?”

“It's only a theory,” Jehan admitted. “But if the head vampire got Enjolras on the platform, it seems highly likely.”

“It's cold as fuck down here,” Eponine said miserably. “What happens if the track maintenance guys find us? We're getting arrested, right?”

Feuilly groaned. “Oh man, I can't get arrested, I have work in the morning!”

Grantaire could practically feel the side-eye Bahorel was giving him. “Uh, news flash, it's already morning."

“I'm in at seven-thirty.”

“Seriously?” Eponine said, incredulous. “You're gonna slay a vampire at like four AM and get into work at seven like nothing happened?”

Feuilly shrugged. “I didn't want to waste my vacation time.”

“Everybody, shush!” Jehan said, suddenly. “I think I found it.”

Grantaire's heart began to race as everyone spread out carefully around the tracks to see what Jehan was referring to.

It was completely unassuming, a simple black iron plate on the ground.

“Are you sure about this?" Combeferre said. "What if it's live wires or something?”

“Is this gonna be like a detonating a bomb kind of thing?” Bahorel asked. “Cut the red wire, y'know?”

“I think you mean de-activating,” Bossuet said.

Jehan ignored them all, kneeling down to get their fingers into the small gap at the edge of the cover. They lifted it up with surprising ease, and Grantaire made a mental note never to get into a fight with Prouvaire no matter how good at boxing he thought he was.

They slid the heavy metal plate aside with a grunt, and stood.

Beneath them was a pitch black hole. It went down, down, down, into seemingly nothing but darkness, but a foul, stale smelling breeze was rising up out of it. For a moment, no one spoke. Then Bahorel bent forwards to hock an enormous loogie down into the terrifying blackness, to the disgust of absolutely everyone.

“That's gross,” Feuilly said.

“Shut up!” Bahorel urged, waving at him to be quiet. “I'm trying to hear if it lands!”

Everyone leaned in to listen. Nothing. Bossuet let out a low whistle.

“That's a long way down.”

“Fuck, man, I'm gonna puke,” Eponine murmured.

“Well we have to go,” Jehan said, straightening up. Even they looked a little unsettled by the thought of descending into the unknown. “It's the only way.”

“Fine,” Bossuet said. “But I'm going down after Eponine, just in case.”


End file.
